


Poker Night 4:  Redux

by Ruth_Devero



Series: Poker Night [4]
Category: due South
Genre: M/M, Poker Night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-28
Updated: 2010-10-28
Packaged: 2017-10-12 22:44:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 62,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/129931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ruth_Devero/pseuds/Ruth_Devero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's October, but only the weather's cooling off.  Someone's setting up Ray, but can Fraser save him?  And can their relationship survive the wrath of Ma Vecchio?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Poker Night 4:  Redux

It was cold. He hunched over his cards, feeling the cold wash down from the top of the mountain. A royal flush, all hearts.

Cold, and the snow falling around him. He brushed the snowflakes off the cards, but they kept falling, dimming the figures.

Cold, and the snow covering the cards, burying them even as he frantically brushed, brushed, brushed.

Cold; oh, god, so cold, and the cards a blankness now, completely covered, the figures gone, as if they had never been there.

Gone; and he was alone in the swirling snow.

Benton Fraser jerked upright in bed, cutting off a shout. Awake now, he relaxed back onto the chilled, sweat-soaked pillow. Cold was the breeze from the window, not the blizzard of his dream. Autumn, with its chilly wind, had invaded his sleep, providing the winter that had temporarily filled his soul.

Just the coolness of early October, nothing more. At his sigh of relief, Diefenbaker twitched his ears.

The wolf was the only other creature in the room, and suddenly Fraser felt the chill of loneliness sweep through him again. Silly, really: the apartment had never felt all that empty before, when it held just him and Diefenbaker. How could it feel as if someone were missing, when all the inhabitants were present and accounted for?

He knew the answer to that even before the question formed itself in his mind. _Don’t lie to yourself, Fraser_ , he sternly told himself. _Just because he doesn’t live here, that doesn’t mean you can’t miss him. Don’t negate your feelings for each other by implying otherwise._

Fraser turned and looked over at Diefenbaker, who gazed placidly at him. Not enough. Wrapping himself in the blanket as if it were those long arms was not enough. Wrapping himself in his own arms was not enough. Imagining that that warm body was just behind him was not enough.

The loneliness stirred in him again, with an unease he realized came from the image in the dream: a poker hand erased, as if it never had been. A royal flush, negated.

Fraser forced a laugh into the silence, breaking it. Silly. Dreams were—well, just games the mind played while one was asleep, rearranging thoughts to slot them into the subconscious. Not prophetic, not profound. Nothing, really, to pay attention to.

But the unease whispered through him as he stared into darkness. Erased. A royal flush.

Suddenly the chill that prickled his skin was not from the open window.

——

Chilly in here. Ray Vecchio tugged the blanket tighter around him and looked again at the alarm clock. Couple hours until he had to get up; what was keeping him awake?

 _Don’t fool yourself_ , he told himself sternly. _You know what’s keeping you awake. Fraser. You want Fraser. You want to warm your feet on his back, to reach out and find him there next to you, to see that sweet, sleepy face every morning_.

Ray tugged impatiently at the blanket, swearing when it came out at the foot of the bed. He wrapped himself up tighter. It wasn’t enough, of course; it wasn’t really Fraser’s arms holding him close, Fraser’s warm body erasing the chill.

Ray twitched at the blanket; he turned onto his side. One hand found the warmth of his groin and lingered there, molding the silk of pajama trousers to stirring flesh. Oh, god, he wanted Fraser, wanted Fraser, wanted _Fraser_ —

Just before things got serious, he took his hand away. That wouldn’t be enough, either; it would just remind him of who he was missing.

Whom. Of _whom_ he was missing. Ray grinned. Grammar: he hadn’t realized it rubbed off.

He looked at the clock again. An hour and fifty-two minutes until he had to get up. Get some sleep, Vecchio.

He stared up at the ceiling. When exactly had he started to get this way? Was it just after Fraser spent that night here last spring after his apartment house was fire damaged? Something about having the Mountie here, where Ray could fuss over him, tuck him in, watch those shining cerulean eyes gradually close themselves in sleep, where Ray could look though very definitely not touch, not with the rest of the family right there. Fraser undressing in front of him as they went to bed that night, just like it was something Ray had the right to see. The sweet intimacy of what felt like a stolen kiss the next morning, while everyone else slept. He could still taste it. Was it then, when he realized the sheer delight of having Fraser right within reach?

Or was it later, when hours spent at Fraser’s started to get commented on, when sometimes it seemed impossible to work some time alone with him into the everyday demands of family and work? When the fact that he wasn’t dating seemed to become an issue for Ma; when he started feeling lonely even in a house full of Vecchios, turning in bed at night for a warmth that wasn’t there, listening during dinner for a voice he rarely heard. When it became an effort not to work Fraser’s name into every conversation, to keep his mouth shut about the one relationship central to his very existence.

He sighed. _Boy, Vecchio, you really know how to pick ’em_. Irene, the sister of his enemy. Angie, now the _former_ Mrs. Ray Vecchio. Suzanne, who’d left him for duty. And Fraser. His laugh curdled in the darkness. Fraser. Another guy. _Yes, Vecchio, you really know how to keep your life simple_.

Watch the pattern the headlights made on the ceiling when a car passed; try to relax. Six months. Six months of loving Fraser. _Six months is a very long time, Vecchio, to keep your love life secret. Six months is a very long time to lie to your family_.

Ray sighed and closed his eyes. Relax, Vecchio. Get some sleep. Imagine life in a universe where a guy telling his family he’s in love with another guy doesn’t end in screams and a code 245: the poor guy getting assaulted with a deadly weapon, probably his own. He smiled wryly. Maybe a code 999: officer requires assistance— _now!_

He tugged the blanket tighter. Give it a rest, Vecchio. Try to sleep now; think about this in the morning.

——

Morning seemed to come all too soon. Fraser went through the before-work routine automatically, holding the dream at bay with the comfortable rituals of bathing, of dressing, of consulting with Diefenbaker about plans for the day.

Ray was not available to give him a ride to work this morning. He couldn’t always be at Fraser’s beck and call; sometimes he had to be elsewhere. Self-pity was—inappropriate. Longing was—well, it was an over-reaction. Besides, a brisk walk to the Consulate would clear Fraser’s mind. It was going to be a lovely day.

The breeze whisking down the street was unexpected, and for a moment Fraser seemed caught in the dream. Snow. And a coldness beyond the autumn chill.

——

“Those iceeee fingers up and down my spiiiiine—”

“Oh, yeah, that’s original, Jaworski.” Ray steered his prisoner through a tuneless gauntlet of “That Old Black Magic,” “It’s Witchcraft,” and “Voodoo Woman.” Jeez, cops couldn’t sing.

Why him? Why always him?

“Oh, mama, cast your voodoo spell on _me!_ ” a teenage perp yodelled.

“Aw, quit it,” Ray muttered when his prisoner wiggled her butt for her audience. Why him? Why always him? Voodoo woman, indeed.

Not that Alessandra Willson didn’t look the part: orange hair gelled into spikes and veiled under a scrap of black gauze; eyes ringed solid in black eyeliner and black eyeshadow; lips the color of fresh blood; inch-and-a-half-long fingernails painted jet black with little ghosts and pumpkins on them; little black dress with practically no skirt, artfully ripped to almost reveal things nice women didn’t show on the street; black hose ripped likewise; strappy black shoes that could only hurt to walk in. Just your average vampire hooker.

Who mostly fenced stolen merchandise. Step up from her former career: pickpocket.

He paused as they reached Booking, stared straight into her eyes. “You’re really not gonna tell me,” he said.

Aless stared back at him, that look that said she wasn’t talking.

“Okay,” said Ray. He pulled her to the cop at the counter. “Book ’er—”

“Don’t say it.” Daniella Brown fixed him with a glare. “Don’t say, ‘Book ’er, Danno.’ Just don’t say it. You got no idea how tired I am of cops comin’ in, sayin’, ‘Book ’em, Danno.’ Like I ain’t heard it about a thousand times before. Only joke they know. And none of ’em brings donuts.”

He regarded her evenly as he dropped the white sack onto the counter. She opened the sack, looked at the two creme-filled donuts inside.

“Okay,” she said, “you can say it.”

Ray smiled sunnily. “Sergeant Brown,” he said, “would you please see to the booking of this suspect?”

“Smart-mouth,” she said. A grin crept onto her face. “All the time I’m surrounded by smart-mouths. And none of ’em brings coffee.”

“Well, today you’re in luck,” Ray said, just as the first dolly trundled by: three cases of Dos Asnos coffee, grown in Colombia. Each case pictured two donkeys kicking up their hind legs, presumably from an excess of caffeine.

“That all?” Brown said, leaning out to watch the coffee being trundled to the evidence room.

“The other fifty-two cases are on their way,” Ray assured her. “Along with thirty-six more cases of those.”

He jerked his chin toward the dolly bearing four cases of One World condoms, being pushed by a blushing rookie.

“Oh, honey, think you got enough for your date?” the transvestite Lipkowitz had brought in yodeled out as the rookie went past.

“There’s a little map of the world printed on every one of ’em,” Ray confided to Brown, who was choking back laughter. “You should see what happens to Australia when those things get stretched out.”

“Sheez, coffee and condoms,” said Lipkowitz. “Add cigars, and you got America in the nineties, right there in one place.”

Ray turned to his suspect. “Aless,” he said gently, “I wish you’d tell me.”

Her eyes narrowed. He could sympathize: certain parties would not be appreciative if she told him where she’d gotten the stuff.

“Okay,” he said. “Book ’er, Danno.” Maybe later.

Up the stairs to the squad room, where Elaine Besbriss was glaring at one of the new computer monitors they’d installed in the squad room. “This thing’s gettin’ slower and slower,” she complained to the room. “I thought they fixed this.”

“It’s that time of day,” said Phaedra Dewey, for once more than five steps from her new partner, Jack Huey. Huey and Dewey: somebody in the Department had a sick sense of humor.

Ray watched Elaine’s shoulders tense. Dewey had that effect on people: that “I-know-everything-and-you-don’t” air grated on everybody but Huey and—

 _Leave it outside, Vecchio_. Don’t think about him. Constable Benton Fraser, Super-Mountie, heart of Ray’s heart, breath of Ray’s breath, and all the other mushy stuff that barely began to describe how Ray felt about him. _Just leave it outside, Vecchio_. Had it only been six months?

At his desk, Jack Huey looked up. “Lieutenant’s looking for you.” Why did he always seem to be gloating when he said that?

“Lieutenant!” Ray said, entering Welsh’s office.

“Detective. Good of you to join us.”

“I was bringing in a perp, sir.” And making a damn good bust, sir.

“The fence?”

“Yes, sir. Alessandra Willson. Fifty-five cases of Colombian coffee. Forty cases of—” Smother a grin. “—of Chinese condoms.”

“ _Chinese?_ ”

“New World Order, sir.”

Welsh gave him that eye again—that look that hinted that Ray was smarting off, but he couldn’t quite prove it. Then he looked past Ray, through the open door. “New World Order, indeed.”

Ray glanced back, caught a glimpse of white wolf and of red uniform that made his heart jump. “Lunch date, sir.”

“Only lunch?” said Welsh. “No thermonuclear devices in Captain Kangaroo lunchboxes? No dolphins being killed for tuna salad? No hostages at Ernie’s Grill?”

“Just lunch, sir.” No time for anything else.

“Well, enjoy yourself. I look forward to your report on the New World Order.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And,” Welsh went on before Ray could get out of the office, “to your reports on these new cases.”

Don’t flinch; just take the folders.

Welsh smiled. “Bank robbery, a couple homicides, aggravated assault. In other words, Old World Order.”

“Of course, sir. Right away, sir.”

“I refuse to believe half the database is nothing but Vecchio’s old cases!” Huey exploded as Ray dropped the folders onto his desk.

“Perhaps the computer’s gone into an nth-complexity infinite binary loop.” Dewey, enlightening the masses.

“Actually, Detective,” Fraser said, “the nth-complexity infinite binary loop doesn’t actually exist.”

“Oh, really.” Her voice seemed to drip icicles.

“Yes. Actually, it’s very interesting. You see—”

“Lunch, Fraser.” Ray grabbed his arm to turn him. If Fraser kept on, there’d be another homicide to write up.

“Whatever it is, it’s a pain in the neck!” Elaine said as he and Fraser left the squad room. “Why does it keep pulling up Vecchio’s cases?”

“Poor judgment?” said Huey.

Ray turned, then was turned back by the iron-hard fingers gripping his arm. Another senseless death averted.

“So,” Ray murmured as he and Fraser left the station house, “lunch, or a quickie?”

He was rewarded by a flush of scarlet in the handsome face.

“Red suits you,” he whispered to Fraser.

“That’s not amusing, Ray.”

“Oh, yeah, it is, Fraser. Trust me.”

“Would you like to go to the Korean deli, or did you have somewhere else in mind?”

“Korean’s fine. So I guess it’s ‘no’ about the quickie.”

“Well, we’d hardly have time: it usually takes me ten minutes just to get back into this uniform, and what with the length of time it takes to get to Racine and back—”

“Who said anything about getting out of the uniform?”

“—And, if I didn’t get completely out of uniform, I’d be so rumpled that Inspector Thatcher would notice—”

“One little wrinkle! Don’t Canadians wrinkle?”

“Not Mounties, Ray.”

Oh, that open, blue-eyed look that implied he was telling the absolute truth. Not Mounties—

“Just go in.” Ray held the door for him—and found himself then holding the door for a little old lady, two businessmen, and a woman with three small children. At least Dief had the grace to ignore the open door. Off his game: being doorman was the _Mountie’s_ job.

So, lunch was lunch after all. Not that bad, really—just, well, not entirely satisfying. He walked Fraser to the Consulate, talking about nothing, not yanking him into the alley for a kiss, not tugging him behind that truck over there for a quick grope. Perfect gentleman. Ray had the right to be proud of himself.

Back of his mind, though, was having quite a little party all on its own, dreaming up all kinds of stuff to keep him awake at night.

——

Last night’s dream had come with him to work, swirled with the light breeze down Ontario as he stood sentry outside the Canadian Consulate, waited patiently in a corner of his mind while he spoke to caterers on the telephone, wove through his words as he consulted representatives of state agencies about necessary permits, spiced the scent of the rose Ray must have left on his desk while he was out on an errand. Lunch with Ray hadn’t dispelled it: now it worked its way into the ink as he addressed invitations, flavored the tea he drank at his break. Why did it hold him? What could it signify?

Surely not discontent with this relationship—the most satisfying of his life. Never could Fraser have imagined the delights of being in love with Ray Vecchio: the sheer joy of being so in tune with such a delightful—and, yes, occasionally irritating—being.

A relationship that had built slowly from standoffishness to trust, from fascination with the foreign other to real regard and appreciation of the other’s talents. From the occasional case solved together to a growing friendship that had somehow slid into something deeper before either realized it.

Fraser smiled down at the envelope he was stamping. Far deeper than friendship, though they hadn’t known it at first. That first awkward forfeit during a poker game—such a startling thing for Ray to demand and for Fraser to give—and his body responding in a way he had not planned, making love where it should have merely cooperated. That second game, and another forfeit—and more lovemaking. And then—and then a swirl of emotion and love and tenderness, days when Fraser’s body seemed to rule his heart, or his heart ruled his brain. But, love. A final, heart-healing declaration of love. A sweetness for which he’d been unprepared.

That first night, after they had declared their love, after hungry lovemaking had become sleep, after they had awakened to eat, they had found their way again to bed, there to touch with hands and mouths, exploring and arousing for what seemed hours. Tender, slow, gradually losing all sense of the world outside the bed, wrapping themselves in pleasure and sensation: whisper of skin on skin; echo of a sigh; tang of sweat; crispness of pubic thatch; rasp of stubble against stubble; the warm, sweet heat of mouth on mouth, on throat, on belly, on musky scrotum. Tips of fingers drifting over every millimeter of his skin; tongue laving his thighs, his buttocks and, astonishingly, dipping into the crevice between; the strangled gasp as he engulfed Ray’s penis with his mouth; cool sole of a foot stroking his back while fingers tightened in his hair; hot mouth languidly sucking his fingers in tempo with his own slow sucking; mouth on his, upside down, then sliding over his skin farther, farther, farther down; trembling body above him as his penis slid into a soft, hot mouth. Again and again, they brought each other to the brink, watching the other’s joy and pleasure. And all that was himself melted away, until he could not say what mouth sighed against what throat, whose hand stroked whose penis, until he was nothing but the heat of love, the ecstasy of Ray’s pleasure. Again and again; until, on some unspoken signal, they took each other beyond, to an exquisite instant: locked in his embrace, Ray’s body arching against his in a long orgasm Fraser felt more strongly than his own.

That sleep came, Fraser had not known until he woke from it, shivering at the cold from the window, protecting Ray’s body from the chill. Pulling the blanket over them both, he looked down at the figure in his arms and sleepily realized that he was no longer alone inside himself, that now there was someone else there with him, completing him, filling what had been empty. He had not known that such completion would be waiting for him; he had savored it as he slid again into Ray-scented dreams—

“Yes, sir!” Fraser jumped to his feet.

“I _said_ , ‘Are you done with those invitations yet?’ ” Inspector Margaret Thatcher frowned at him from the doorway.

“Almost finished, sir—ma’am— _Inspector_.”

She regarded him closely. “Are you all right, Constable?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Didn’t it hurt to slam your hand in the drawer like that?”

 _Didn’t it hurt to slam his hand_ — He looked down at the hand in question, which most certainly seemed to have been slammed hard in the upper right-hand drawer of his desk. Reaching absently for something when her voice had broken into his daydreams and startled him into trying to hide—well, trying to hide what he was thinking about? Thank heaven his scarlet face could be explained by such a ridiculous accident.

“Well, sir, now that you mention it, it does hurt just a tad.”

She looked at him.

“How are the permits coming?”

“Fine, sir. I’ve gotten almost all of them.”

Pause.

“I hope we don’t have the same trouble this time that we had last time. With the—events.”

“I really doubt, sir, that this time we’ll have a nuclear incident on a train full of unconscious Mounties. The laws of chance alone would—would preclude it.”

“Of course.”

Pause.

“Well, Constable, if you think you’ve everything in order … “

“Yes, sir.”

When Inspector Thatcher turned from the doorway, her frown had not smoothed itself out.

Fraser realized why when he started to reach for his pen.

Hand still caught in the drawer.

Oh, dear.

——

Oh, damn.

Oh, damn, he was thinking about the Mountie again, when he was supposed to be concentrating on that report, still curling, half-typed, from his typewriter. What was _wrong_ with him? You’d think after six months a guy wouldn’t still get so—so _loopy_ about his love life.

Ray sighed and reached for the white-out.

“You know, if you used a good word processing program, you wouldn’t need all that white-out.” Dewey, spreading unwanted information and sour good cheer. “You could just input everything on a form and make corrections right on the screen.”

 _And be perfect, like you_. “Yes,” said Ray, “but think about all the little children who go to their beds with full tummies at night, because kindly Uncle Ray goes through thirty-five bottles of white-out every week. Think about the fragile little old people who feel like such useful members of society, weaving all these typewriter ribbons by hand—”

That _clack-clack_ was the sound of her heels as she stomped off. Ray shook his head. No courtesy. People just had no patience to be courteous any more. Couldn’t even finish a polite conversation.

He peered at the report, fooled with the carriage in order to squeeze an “m” at the end of “condo”, so the sentence now read, “Forty cases of One World brand condom were found in the suspect’s apartment.” Oh, damn. “Condom” needed an “s,” and there was no room. He sighed, ripped out the report, and started over.

Trouble was, he was having a harder and harder time keeping his love life separate from his work life. Well, they did overlap to a large extent: Ray’s cases and Fraser just seemed to attract each other. Not that Ray really tried to keep them apart. It was just weird, was all.

And dangerous. A hand halted before it reached for Fraser on the sidewalk. A sudden surge of joy stifled when Fraser walked into the squad room. Ray surveyed the room. How many of those cops would still be his friend if they found out about him and Fraser?

He grunted. Well, actually, how many of those cops really were his friend now? Just write your damn report, Vecchio.

Focus. Just focus.

But dried rose petals in the top drawer of his desk spiced the air when he opened it for yet another bottle of white-out, and he couldn’t help but smile. Fraser’s roses, still popping up in unexpected places. Long-stemmed roses from a long-legged Canadian. It was so much fun, being in love.

That night they’d finally admitted it, in the chilly shower of Fraser’s fire-damaged apartment building. Just the thought, and Ray’s heart still quickened.

What felt like the whole rest of that first night, they had touched each other, explored each other with mouth and tongue and fingers and cock. God, he’d never done that before, never experienced anything like that before: the stoking of some slow, hot flame inside him, that seemed to melt something in him so he couldn’t later even remember the things they did. Just snatches, mostly Fraser: that hot, wet mouth on every inch of his skin; words that were half a moan; fingers caressing the crevice of his ass over and over; tongue tracing the lifeline in his palm; sentences tangled up in sighs; fingers skimming him all over, mouth following; a slow, solid sucking on his cock; Fraser’s strong fingers in his mouth. At some point, everything seemed to blend, so that when they finally came, he could have sworn he actually felt Fraser’s orgasm, a spasm of pleasure even sweeter than his own.

Next morning, silence woke him: the absence of Fraser’s breathing, of his heartbeat. Ray sat up. Out with the wolf someplace. This waking up alone didn’t feel so bad, because he didn’t feel like he was alone; there was something of Fraser inside him, filling up the empty spaces. Ah, god, he loved this part of being in love.

Quick shower, quick shave, both ice-cold and, well, shrivelling. Quick shuffle down the cold floor of the hallway back to the apartment, to make—well, damn, no coffee.

But when the door opened and Fraser stepped in, suddenly Ray didn’t need it. Ah, god, look at him. Ah, geez, look at his face light up like that. Guy whose blood was perking along like Ray’s suddenly was didn’t need coffee at all.

They gazed at each other for a long, silent moment. Who needed words? A step into a sweet kiss. Oh, _geez_ , who needed words?

“I was gonna make coffee, but—” said Ray.

“What brand do you like?”

Some guys were so romantic. “I’ll ask Ma.” Gosh, he smelled good.

“I passed the workmen on the way in,” Fraser said. “They think they’ll be done inspecting the gas lines today. Until then, I guess it’s—cold showers.” He was grinning.

“Good thing,” said Ray, which was about the funniest thing either of them had heard in a long time.

Oh, it was a shame to break from that long, deep kiss, to get into clothes and get ready to go to breakfast and to work. Just before they left, Fraser pulled open Ray’s jacket and checked the gun in Ray’s holster. Ray grinned at him. Yes, dear; I’ll be careful, dear.

Ray settled Fraser’s Mountie hat firmly on his head. “Keep your hat on,” he said to Fraser’s bemused expression.

“Keep my hat on?”

“Yeah. Haven’t you ever noticed, you lose that hat, you get hurt?”

“ _What?_ ”

Time to go. He walked out of the apartment ahead of Fraser.

“Yeah, Fraser. Think about it! Ever since I’ve known you, every time you get beat up, stabbed, or—well, whatever, it’s only when you’re not wearing the hat. You got the hat, you get shot at, jump off buildings—no problem. That hat ain’t just a hat, Fraser; it’s armor. You keep it on.”

“But that’s—that’s just _ridiculous_ , Ray! That’s just—just _ridiculous!_ ”

“Nevertheless, scientific observation, Fraser. Can’t be wrong. Once or twice, coincidence, but … Really, it’s scientific fact.”

“But _Ray_ —”

Out on the street by now, passing the workmen. Just arguing like a couple of regular guys. “You _are_ gonna get this place in shape real soon,” Ray said as he passed the workmen. “Guardin’ this place is a real pain.”

Safe in the Riv, Fraser’s hand moving to Ray’s thigh as they pulled into traffic. “But, Ray, that’s the most _ludicrous_ —”

“Nevertheless.” Geez, what a beautiful morning. Arguing sweetly with the one he loved. Damn, love was wonderful—

“ _Vec_ chio? Why does that computer have such a jones for _Vec_ chio?”

Ray jerked to attention, knocking over the bottle of white-out. Oh, damn, all over page one of the new version of his report. Ah, _jeez_.

“No accounting for tastes,” Elaine said.

“Maybe it really _has_ gone into an nth-complexity infinite binary loop.”

Ray paused in his mopping. Who the hell ever told Huey he knew a damn thing about computers?

“Actually, there’s a computer virus that makes it do just that,” Dewey informed the world.

“Oh, _really_.” Huey sounded fascinated.

“Yes. It’s called ‘Good Times’—”

“That’s it! I’m rebooting!” Elaine broke in.

Rebooting. Good idea. Ray sighed and cranked yet another report form into the typewriter. “Forty cases of One World brand condominiums were—” Oh, where the hell was that white-out?

“Maybe it’s an nth-complexity infinite _probability_ loop.” Dewey, an hour later, still Albert Einstein on the computer.

The click of wolf toenails on the floor was like the answer to a prayer. Ray jumped up and grabbed his coat.

“Diefenbaker!” Elaine forgot her frustration with cyberspace in fussing over the wolf.

And there was the wolf’s owner, equally worth fussing over.

“Fraser!” Ray tried to keep his tone light. “Give you a lift?”

“Certainly!”

“What’s wrong with the hand?” Ray said as they made their way downstairs.

Fraser looked at his bandaged right hand. “Office accident.”

“Well, let’s hope it’s covered by workman’s comp. Those paperclips can be deadly.”

“Drawer, actually.”

In the Riv, wolf in the back, Mountie stetson on the dash, Fraser’s hand on Ray’s thigh when they were safely away from the station house. Feeling the warmth of that hand, Ray felt himself relax. Safe.

“I was gonna pick you up,” he said.

“I needed to—walk off some excess energy.”

Ray grinned at him. “There are more interesting ways.”

“Thinking about those was the cause of the—excess energy.”

Ray laughed. Oh, yeah, he could understand that. “So, did you—drain all the—energy?”

The hand on his thigh tightened. “I certainly thought so, until I walked into your squad room.”

Ah, jeez, there was enough excess energy in the car now to light half of Chicago. Too bad it couldn’t go anyplace.

“This is the night I got to take Ma to Aunt Ina’s, remember?”

The hand let go. “Oh. I thought that was tomorrow night.”

“Damn, I wish it was. Dinner and a whole evening of Aunt Ina’s gall bladder and Aunt Ina’s bunions and Aunt Ina’s palpitations. When I could be having palpitations of my own focusing on your mouth and your cock and that really tasty place on the back of your neck.”

The fingers tightened on his thigh again—more firmly than before.

“How about I come over afterward?”

“But your mother will—”

“Yeah. You’re right; she will. Besides, what I got in mind, we won’t want to get out of bed for a week.”

The hand caressed his thigh. Fraser looked wistful. “I wish we— I wish we—could be more—open—about our relationship.”

Ray’s heart did a flip-flop. “Yeah, so do I.”

He pulled into a parking spot near Fraser’s apartment building; they looked at each other for a minute. More open about the relationship meant hurting people Ray just couldn’t bear to hurt.

The hand patted his thigh. “Come up for coffee?”

Oh, yeah—he could come up for coffee.

Coffee took time, of course: all that water to heat. And waiting for water to heat, a guy had to find something to occupy his time. And his hands. And his mouth.

And so the next thing a guy knew, he was on the floor, pants to his knees, with Fraser under him, clutching his ass and gasping “Ray” and “yes” and “there” and “oh” while his cock slid against a hot, naked belly softer than any rose petal and he did some clutching and gasping of his own and all the water in the pan boiled clean away.

Fraser’s gentle thoroughness cleaning Ray’s belly and cock afterward with a wet washcloth was almost foreplay all over again. Ray reached for the back of Fraser’s neck, brought his mouth down for a kiss that could have ignited a dead sun. Damn, he loved coffee.

Somehow it wasn’t quite the same beverage later on that night at Aunt Ina’s house.

——

Night—and Fraser cooled himself under the wind that came through the window, the one that seemed to be blowing straight from the Territories to remind him of home. Home. Wherever that was. He frowned. Canada, of course; specifically, Northwest Territories. Naturally.

He shifted on the bed. Or perhaps not. The Territories were changing, becoming two separate entities. In a handful of years, the place he had left would cease to exist, except in his mind. He could live with that change; it was long overdue. But it was changing without his help, becoming not-home without him, except for what he could do at the Consulate.

Fraser snorted. Silly and melodramatic. “Home” wasn’t a political entity: it was a landscape, a people, a way of life sculpted by limitless sky and by the sere beauty of great cold. That was basic; that wouldn’t change. When he returned, the brief and vivid summers would bring black flies to thicken the air near waterways where grizzlies splashed for fish, winter snow would blanket the earth in softness and deception, and the mountains would stand lofty and eternal under the crackling curtain of the aurora borealis. When he returned, the people would be that quirky combination of shyness and warmth, toughness and self-deprecation; elusive, eccentric—people of a landscape larger than they were. Nothing essential would have changed.

But perhaps he would have. “You’ve changed, Mountie,” Eric had said when he’d come to Chicago to rescue the sacred masks; sometimes even now those words haunted Fraser. He didn’t want to have changed, to have lost that essence that was, at its center, a function of the land where he was born.

But he _was_ changing, and, he thought, so was his definition of “home.” Now it wasn’t simply Canada, the Territories, Mackenzie District. Now it seemed to be wherever Ray was: Chicago, Inuvik, Illinois, the Territories, the States, Canada, wherever. Ray now defined the word “home.”

Fraser smiled into the darkness. Put that way, it was all so very simple. Canadian stranded in the States, man of the wilderness dropped into one of the great urban centers of the world: and “home” was wherever one very singular person might be. Simple.

He laughed and stretched luxuriously in the caress of the wind. That afternoon’s interlude had been all too brief, but wonderfully intense. Ray’s mouth on his the minute he’d put on the water for coffee; and then he was half unclothed on the floor, with Ray over him, gasping “Fraser” and “oh” and “oh” and “Benny,” gripping him hard and thrusting against Fraser’s belly as desperately as Fraser was thrusting against his. Actual coffee had—well, had been postponed.

Love. He was still delighting in the joys and nuances. That an explosion of passion could sate and inflame all in the same instant. That simply touching hands could satisfy the soul. That any emotion could make him feel this complete.

That there could be such utter enthrallment. Looking at Ray, some people would fail to understand Fraser’s pleasure in him, but Ray reminded Fraser of a poem he’d once heard, about the glory hidden in ordinary things: the graceful mastery of a bird over the wind; the shine in freshly plowed earth; the fire hidden in the ash-colored ember. A glory within, that spilled forth in humor and tenderness and passion.

Something about Ray was—inspiring. Fraser’s hands would trace new patterns on Ray’s body as if they were expressing thoughts of their own; his tongue led him to every crevice and caressed every centimeter in a different rhythm. Even out of bed, he sometimes found himself pausing in mid-action until his mind had resolved the intricacies of some new method of drawing pleasure out of that long, lithe body. Fraser would plot out an afternoon’s lovemaking; and his body would follow its own strategy the minute he tongued the first bead of sweat from Ray’s throat. He had no control; he simply followed his hands, his mouth, his heart. His entire body seemed to exist mostly to pleasure Ray. Even his words: sometimes in the moments of love they spilled from his mouth in strings of poetic fire that astonished him when he recalled them later. And, standing quietly at sentry or accomplishing the mindless duties of the office, he would feel more words gather around the first, ready for the next passionate moment. It seemed as if Fraser’s body and his words were engaged in one labor: building an endless epic poem he facetiously titled, “In Praise of Ray.”

In praise of Ray. Fraser turned again in the touch of the wind from the Territories. A life spent in praise of Ray was a life well worth living, even if it had to be lived far from the Arctic circle. Where Ray was, was home, though tonight Ray was blocks away, locked in his own house, safe in his own bed, deep in his own dreams, and unaware of the wind.

——

Wind from the Territories tonight—straight from the ice pack. Ray frowned. _Was_ there an ice pack up there? Probably; seemed like a good place for it. Was Fraser awake, thinking of him, feeling the chill wind that was a reminder of winter yet to come?

Jeez, tonight had been a complete waste. Whole evening spent in Aunt Ina’s stuffy house, eating her weird lasagna, listening to that boring monologue about her feet. Aunt Ina’s feet were a subject of great interest to everybody in the family but Ray. So of course she always grabbed him to tell him all about them.

And all the time he was going, “Uh, huh,” and “Oh, really,” he’d been thinking of Fraser, which got him in trouble when he’d gone “Uh, huh” _and_ “Oh, really” a couple minutes after she’d left the room to get those x-rays of her feet to show him.

Absent-minded. Geez, he got so absent-minded still. That first week after he and Benny had become an item, he’d walked into walls, he was so distracted. Like his brain was overloaded and couldn’t really take in the outside world. Overloaded with the sense of Benny’s textures, of Benny’s smell, of Benny’s taste, overloaded with the electric warmth of Benny’s hands on his skin, of Benny’s cock filling his emptiness, overloaded with the sense of being the center of Benny’s universe, of being wrapped up in love. And all these many months later, some days he still went foggy, coming out of a Fraser-scented daydream he hadn’t realized he was sliding into, to find somebody getting impatient at him.

This wasn’t what he’d wanted; this wasn’t what he’d planned on: falling in love with a guy. At first he’d thought it was just some weird mid-thirties phase nobody talked about—something to do with looking for sex in all the wrong places. And bone-melting sex was certainly part of it in the beginning. But there was more than great sex or great friendship: he was actually in love with the guy. And it had lasted, which surprised him sometimes. Six months. Almost a record.

Six months of Fraser as his anchor in a sometimes-stormy life. Six months of love filling the empty places in a soul still twisted by the hurts of childhood, by the disappointments of love gone sour. Six months of a relationship so close they completed each other’s thoughts. A whole lot more than he’d ever bargained on.

And the sex. Oh, god, the sex. Six months, and his body still tingled whenever he thought about the sex. It was like being a newlywed again, besotted with Benny’s smell, with the texture of his skin, with the heat of his mouth. At work, he had to keep his mind all business: at the oddest moments he could find himself overwhelmed by the memory of Benny’s fingers rubbing that tender spot between Ray’s ass cheeks, of the strained beauty of Benny’s face at the instant of orgasm, of the taste of musky sweat—and Ray would have to sit quietly, hoping nobody noticed, while his erection melted. It was like being thirteen again, with a cock with a mind of its own. He’d developed the habit of holding things in front of his crotch, just in case; sometimes it felt like he was shielding his real life from the notice of hostile strangers.

One thing he couldn’t get over was how much—well— _fun_ it was making love with Benny. Part of it was the not feeling responsible for the other person having a good time: Benny wasn’t as passive in that department as some girls Ray had slept with. Not passive at all. But most of it was that Benny so thoroughly enjoyed himself, like somebody playing—except the playground was Ray. He would caress Ray in unexpected places, lick body parts a good Catholic boy had never even thought of as places a person would want to put his mouth. And it was no good telling him such things weren’t kosher, because he just did them anyway—and Ray’s knees would buckle in ecstacy.

And some of the things Benny thought of— Like, what if he sat in a rocking chair, with Ray on his lap, firmly impaled, and then rocked? “What if” was that they’d almost broken the chair, Benny’s cock, and Ray’s spine, but the glory of that instant of sliding hard down Benny’s cock, wrapped in Benny’s arms, turned for Benny’s kiss still set Ray’s mind ablaze. Just get a sturdier chair next time. Maybe practice first. Or that time that Benny got real impatient halfway through undressing and just pushed Ray against the wall, yanked their pants halfway to their knees, and started moving against Ray’s crotch, mouth glued to mouth, so that desperate moans were muffled as they rode each other’s sweat-slick bodies hard and fast and harder and faster to a knee-trembling finish. Or the way Benny sometimes made love with words as well as with his body, hands gliding over Ray’s skin while Benny’s mouth murmured a sweet and passionate description of what he was touching and seeing and feeling. Who’d have thought words could be so sexy?

Sometimes Ray found himself pulling back a little, just to watch Benny’s joy at what they were doing, to revel secondhand in what Benny was feeling. And, a couple times, to watch Benny watching himself: necking in the Riv, Ray would see a wondering half-smile on Benny’s face and realize that Benny was enjoying not only the touch of Ray’s hand caressing his cock through the fabric of his trousers, but that he _was_ enjoying it, and that Ray was doing it to him. Ray found that consciousness touching; it spoke of the years when Benny had had no one to give him such sweetness. And Ray would watch the Mountie watching himself—and then firmly dispel all thought with his fingers or his mouth. He was here, now; the past was over and done.

But, ah, god, the sex. The mind-teasing, sense-sating, heart-pleasing presence of Benton Fraser, RCMP, now filling every was-empty corner of Ray Vecchio’s life. Sometimes Ray was happily aware that he felt like he was moving through the world safe behind the shield of his love for Benny and of Benny’s love for him.

Which, of course, was why he walked right into it.

Couple days after Aunt Ina, a Saturday, and Ray was getting ready for a whole afternoon with Fraser. Good shirt, new jacket, fresh shave. A whole afternoon with Fraser.

Then downstairs, looking to see if Ma had finished folding the laundry: socks to match the jacket.

Something should have told him to turn right around and go back upstairs, put on the socks that didn’t quite match the jacket and just get out of there; but he was thinking about Fraser and a whole afternoon and how great he was going to look for Fraser, and so he missed the tender smile Ma gave him, missed the dewy look in her eyes; and he didn’t realize how much trouble he was in until she took his hand and smiled up at him and said, “Bring her back for dinner,” cradling his cheek in her other hand.

Ray’s heart froze; he stood and looked at her a minute.

“Ma,” he said in a strangled voice.

She smiled at him again and brushed some non-existent lint from his shoulder. “What—are you ashamed?”

Something was wrong with his breathing. “No, Ma—” Oh, damn, she looked so happy for him—suddenly he just couldn’t lie to that happy face.

Ray took a deep breath but seemed to get no air at all. “Ma,” he said. He took both her hands and sat her down at the table where she’d been folding clothes. “Ma—Ma, it’s not a girl.” Breathe. “It’s—it’s a guy, Ma.” Breathe, while the light went out of her face. “I’m—I’m in love with a guy.”

Her hands were yanked from his so fast he could feel her fingernails scrape his fingers. She jerked, like she’d been slapped.

“Nonsense,” she said.

“Ma, it’s—”

“Nonsense.” Her voice was as flat as her eyes.

“Ma. Ma!” He tried to touch her, but she jerked away. “Ma, it’s true. I’m—”

The slap rocked his head so hard his head spun for a minute. He put his hand to his cheek, waiting for it to start stinging.

“This is nonsense.” She was sitting bolt upright, glaring at him, dry-eyed. “Nonsense, what you’re telling me; it’s nonsense.”

“It’s not—”

“It’s nonsense.” She looked away from him, swallowing hard, hands working each other in her lap. She looked at him. “Who is it?”

He stared at her.

“ _Who is it?_ I demand to know who it is!”

“It’s—” Oh, god, his voice wouldn’t work. “It’s—it’s Fraser, Ma.”

The slap this time was harder than the first. He glared at her, focusing on not hitting her back. She was angry, was all, and hurt, betrayed by Ray and—well—by the nice Mountie she’d adopted in the traditional Italian-American way.

So he concentrated on not hitting back, on not breaking down right in front of her, the wetness in his eyes matching the wetness in hers. They glared at each other across the silence.

“Filth. That kind of filth you’re talking about in _my_ house.”

Ray set his jaw. It was _his_ house, but— “It isn’t filth. We’re in love.”

“It’s filth. It’s a sin; it’s a filthy sin in the eyes of God. Bringing that man into this house—doing those _things_. All those filthy things those perverted men do to each other.”

The tears in his eyes had dried now; his heart seemed to be drying up too, shrivelling.

“I can’t believe you do those—those _things_. You let _him_ do those—those things to you. He’s filthy. And you’re filthy to let him do it. My son.” She almost spat.

“Well, Ma,” Ray heard his voice say as if from far away, “this is your son. This is what I’m really like. I’m in love with Fraser. I’ve been in love with him for a long time.”

“ _Love_. Love is a man and a woman and they make children together! This is—this is disgusting.”

“Ma, I feel for him twice what I ever felt for Angie.”

He saw the blow coming this time, caught her wrist before she connected. She flinched it out of his grasp.

“Don’t you _dare_ mention him in the same breath as her! Don’t you _dare_ say what you and he do is something to be mentioned in the same breath as the sacrament of marriage! It’s disgusting animals doing disgusting animal things!”

“Ma, it’s love.”

“No, it’s something terrible he’s making you do. You are not to see him again! I forbid you to ever see him again!”

She forbid— He almost laughed.

She saw; her face closed as tightly as if he’d struck her. “You are never to see him again!”

This was getting ridiculous. “I’m an adult,” he informed her.

“While you are living in _my_ house, you will live like a decent person, not some sort of animal doing disgusting things to another man!”

“It’s my house.”

“ _What?_ ”

“It’s my house, and I’m an adult, and I will see him if I like.” The knife edge in his voice silenced her for a minute. “You can’t stop me. I’m an adult. I love him. And you can’t stop me seeing him.”

“While you live in _this_ house—”

“ _Ma_ —” His voice held a warning.

“While you are living in _this_ house, Raymond—”

“Don’t, Ma.”

“—you will abide by rules of common decency! You will not see him and live in this house.”

He felt himself shove his chair back. “Well, we can fix that, can’t we?”

Fury got him to his feet before she could say a word; fury took him upstairs and into his room. All his actions were sharp and smooth as he got the suitcase out of his closet, began filling it with clothes. His hands did their job automatically; his brain seemed to be elsewhere.

He was almost done when he felt her presence in the room, turned to find her dropping his clean clothes into the suitcase, wrinkled, twisted, just as they’d come out of the dryer. They stared at each other for a silent minute, and then she stalked out; he heard her feet loud on the stairs up to her room.

Ray took a deep breath; suddenly his hands were shaking. Lunch was threatening to come back up. He stopped the shaking in his hands by gripping the suitcase while he looked around the room to see if he’d missed anything important.

Nothing he couldn’t live without.

So he shrugged on his shoulder holster and slipped his semiautomatic into it, slipped his backup piece and its holster into the suitcase; and he walked downstairs and got his overcoat out of the closet, opened the front door, and left.

Not until he got into the car did he realize that he was still barefoot. He looked down at his feet, wondering if there was any point in digging his shoes out of the suitcase to put them on.

No real point, so he drove barefoot all the way over to Fraser’s place, landscape blurring in front of him because halfway there it suddenly struck him that without his shoes and those perfect socks his whole outfit was wrong; he wouldn’t look all that special for Fraser after all.

——

Something alerted Fraser even before Diefenbaker went to the door, before he heard the faint knock.

He opened the door, and his heart froze for a moment at the sight of Ray, carrying a suitcase, eyes brimming in a face that looked bruised, feet bare and pinched-looking.

“Want a roommate?” Ray said; and Fraser’s arms reached out to bring him home.

Hours passed before Fraser realized it: hours in which Ray paced and tried not to cry, shook in Fraser’s arms and tried not to cry. When at last he did cry, it was the wrenching, half-strangled sobs of a man unaccustomed to weeping. Fraser held him through the sobs, then busied himself in the kitchen while Ray pulled himself back together.

Coffee. Early supper. His hands shook while he put water on to boil for pasta. He felt bruised, as if he’d been beaten.

Whisper of bare feet on the floor, and Ray came to the sink to fill a glass with water, drink it dry. He rubbed his hands over his puffy eyes.

“I ruined our afternoon,” he said.

“No, you didn’t, Ray!”

Ray looked forlornly at him. “Smells good,” he said, though there was no food to smell.

Sitting at supper, he said it again, though he made no move to eat. He rubbed his hands over his eyes. “I don’t feel so good,” he said.

Alarmed, Fraser put a hand to Ray’s forehead. Warm. “You’re sick,” he said. “You need to get into bed.”

And so Ray was put to bed, and Fraser tried to eat his own supper, too aware of the other plate, of the silent figure curled under the blanket in the bed. Diefenbaker got most of the pasta.

A long evening. Fraser tried to read, but Ray’s still figure drew his eyes, his concentration. Well, early bedtime. It would be good for him.

He looked at Ray, lying so quietly. Bed on the floor tonight; better not to disturb Ray.

A few minutes after Fraser put out the light, he was aware that Ray was sitting up in bed, looking over at him.

“I make my whole family hate me, and now you won’t even touch me.”

Fraser was off the floor and into the bed almost before the last word left Ray’s lips. He gathered Ray close, listened to the thumping of his heart. Here. Ray was here at last, in his proper place. Home was right here. Fraser was shamed by the joy that tried to flood through him.

He concentrated on comforting that hot body, holding it close. Ray shivered and clutched him; Fraser smoothed a hand over his back, again and again, until Ray’s body relaxed in sleep.

Fraser stayed awake for quite a while longer, staring into darkness, soothing Ray’s fevered dreams with a caressing hand.

——

Flu. Had to be. Ray spent that whole next day in bed, achy and restless, twitchy and hot, drowsing to fitful dreams and waking to water and juice and aspirin and soup and donuts, to Fraser’s cool hand on his cheek and Fraser’s frown at his temperature. Lousy: Ray felt lousy. Ma had been right; if you went out of the house without your shoes when it was cold, you got sick.

Evening, and Fraser wrapped him up good and got him into a chair, so he could change the wrinkled, sweat-damp sheets. Ray picked at the clam chowder Fraser had heated up for him and ate the Oreos and then endured the sponge bath Fraser insisted on—which actually felt kind of good—and settled into the freshly made bed with a contented sigh. Fraser really knew how to take care of a guy who was sick.

Next morning, he felt a lot better but still loggy. Nonetheless, he sent Fraser off to work and to call in sick for Ray: he’d be fine; just needed to rest. At noon, Fraser brought him a prosciutto sandwich, smiling while he watched Ray eat it and smiling at the thermometer when he took Ray’s temperature.

Weird, though, how he couldn’t seem to get his energy back. Next couple of days Ray spent mostly dozing, with Dief a warm presence just behind him on the bed; even when he roused himself to talk to Fraser, his body felt leaden. At night, the feeling of Fraser’s arms around him was a treasure to be cherished; but Ray quickly fell hard asleep, waking only when the Mountie got up to go to work. Tough flu to get over.

One of those days, Fraser came home later than usual. “I—I took the liberty of picking up your mail,” he said. His voice sounded rough, and Ray saw a slight flush on his left cheek. Oh, god, had Ma—

Fraser wouldn’t talk about it, and Ray didn’t really feel all that good: too queasy to do anything more than toy with supper. His legs didn’t seem to want to hold him up; he went to bed early, and so did Fraser, clutching him tight. Oh, god, poor Fraser: Ray smoothed his hair over and over again, listening to their combined heartbeats, until they both fell asleep.

Next day, Ray was sitting in a chair, thinking about how much effort it would be to heat up some soup; Dief had gone out the fire escape window to do whatever he did when he went out. There was a knock at the door.

Oh, just let it not be one of those preachy people trying to rescue his soul from damnation.

He opened the door, and there was his sister, Frannie. She looked at him for a minute, face caught between sympathy and outrage, and then she took a deep breath as outrage won.

“ _What_ did you _do_ to her?” Frannie said with that look that said, “You’re dog meat, buster, because after all you’re only my brother,” and also said, “But I’ll listen to you first, because after all she is our mother.”

He drew her inside, closed the door, started through the kitchen to the table, his insides twisting. Then, halfway there, he turned and said very quietly, “I fell in love with Fraser.”

“You fell in love with—” she began, then, “—oh!” She stood still for a minute, then something seemed to dawn on her, and her eyes widened. “ _Oh!_ ” Then her feet started working again, though her eyes were glazed; he pulled out a chair for her and steered her to it, and she plumped down like something was wrong with her legs. He sat on the other chair. “Oh,” she said after a while; then her eyes focused on the end of the bed. “ _Oh_ , my—” She turned red. “ _Oh_ , my go—” She looked at him in outraged disgust. “Oh, my god, that’s—” She seemed to think better of what she was about to say. She settled back and gave him a look both puzzled and a little sad. “Oh.”

“I didn’t mean to,” he offered.

“Oh, you should _see_ her! She’s lighting candles and screaming curses and talking to the _priest_ every five minutes— I didn’t know _what_ to do! And then when _Benny_ came over—”

His heart stabbed him. Benny walking into the firestorm that was Ma being mad. Poor Benny, bravely taking his licks.

Frannie was getting that squeamish look. “Did you _always_ like guys?”

“ _I_ don’t know.”

“Was he the first guy you—” She turned red.

Now, what kind of question was that for a good Catholic girl to ask her brother? And what kind of answer was he going to give it? There’d been those couple times with Vinnie Mauceri, just—well, maybe it was kind of a weird way for a guy to get his rocks off, even if he was curious and constantly horny and was between girlfriends. But that had been it.

His silence answered her. Her jaw dropped. Then she got that fighting-Vecchio look. “ _You_ didn’t make a pass at Stephen DiNapoli, did you? I _knew_ he didn’t break up with me just because Lucia Doran came back to town. You better not—”

“Are you _crazy?_ _I_ didn’t make any passes at your boyfriends! Who’d want those losers anyway? He went back to her because she’d put out and you wouldn’t! At least you _better_ not have—” Gee, he was relieved she was fighting with him; it meant she’d gotten over the initial shock. It was better than having her—oh, damn, she _was_ crying.

“How could you—” She turned away, toward the window, tears rolling down her cheeks.

 _Get water_ , his brain told him in a strangled voice. _Woman crying; get out of here; getting water is a good excuse_. He hoped his lunge from the chair didn’t look as desperate as it was.

He took a long time, rinsed the glass, let the water run nice and cold, filled it up carefully, shoulders hunched against the misery behind him. When he turned, she was honking into a kleenex.

“Well, him being gay explains why he never really went for me,” she said forlornly.

Ray paused, his heart tumbling over in his chest. Oh, Frannie. Fraser’d never gone for her because—well, because he’d just never gone for her. But if it helped her self esteem to believe that— Oh, Frannie.

He set the glass of water down on the table and gave her a quick one-armed hug, pressing his lips to her hair. “I’m sorry,” he said.

She gave him a teary smile and hugged him back. “You couldn’t help it,” she said. “Nobody can ever really help it.” Her voice sounded sad.

He sat back down and watched her sip the water.

Then she got the war look again. “When did you— When did you realize you were—”

“Spring. Last spring.”

She sat back and took a deep breath. “Oh, _good_ ,” she said. “Oh, that’s a _relief!_ Good! That time you tried to warn me off him— I’d hate to think you were being jealous!”

“No! I was seeing Linda then, remember?”

“Oh, yeah. _Lin_ -da.” Oh, yeah, she _did_ remember. Linda had been an error of epic proportions; for weeks after they’d broken up, “ _Lin_ -da” had been Vecchio-talk for “big mistake I really didn’t realize I was making at the time, but now, oh, _boy_ , I wish I hadn’t!”

Frannie was mopping her face. “Well, if it couldn’t be me, at least it isn’t that Mountie woman,” she said.

He laughed then, a laugh that seemed to clear out a lot of the debris from the last few days. “The Dragon Lady,” he said.

Frannie was laughing along with him, in one of those rare just-us-Vecchios-against-the-world moments. She would hurt for a long time, but she’d stick by him. In her own fashion, of course.

“Is he—is he _good_ to you?” she asked. Her hands were shaking.

“Oh, yeah,” he said gently. Oh, Frannie.

She sniffled, her eyes suddenly bright with tears, and looked out the window. “That’s good,” she said. “That’s good.”

He wanted so much to hold her, but he knew that if he did she’d start crying hard and get embarrassed and mad at him for seeing her so upset. So he just sat there, stroking her hand, loving her, while she got it back together.

“Well, Ma is just—she’s just _wrong_ ,” Frannie said, some of the fierceness coming back. “I mean—people fall in _love_ , and— Well, she’s just _wrong_.”

“She’s following the teaching of the Church,” Ray said.

“Yeah, but that’s just—” He understood that sudden silence: the Church’s teachings weren’t to be questioned. But two divorced Catholics weren’t exactly going to be such good advocates of the Church’s doctrines.

“I don’t think they _get_ it.” Frannie was nothing if not stubborn. “I mean, I don’t exactly get it, either—well, maybe I _do_ get it. I mean, it’s _Benny_. He’s just—I just really do understand, Ray. I can see why you’d fall in love with him. I can. After all, _I_ did.” Her little smile was forlorn. “You two being physical—I don’t—that’s just not something I want to try to get. But _love_. It just doesn’t seem right to be that horrible when it’s _love_.”

She still had remnants of the squeamish look, but his heart was warmed. Once Frannie made up her mind, nothing short of a baseball bat could change it.

“And who does she think she is, just kicking you out like that?” She shoved the unused kleenex into her purse.

“I _left_ , Frannie.”

“Because she made you! It’s _your_ house, Ray! She threw you out of _your_ house! Pop left it to _you!_ ”

“You _know_ that was so I could take care of everybody! It sure wasn’t out of re _spect!_ Can you see me kicking everybody out of the house so me and Benny can live happily ever after? _Everybody_ , Frannie?”

She grimaced at him. “I _just_ mean it’s your house and you got a right to live there if you want! Oh, she is just _wrong_. I am just gonna—”

Arms were waving now, hands being flung into the air in the usual sort of Frannie-fit. Ray grinned at her. There were those women who sang opera, riding into battle all dressed up in armor and singing at the top of their lungs. Valkyries—that was them. When Frannie got like this, she reminded Ray of one of those.

Frannie stood, jerking her purse onto her shoulder. “You just leave it to me,” she said. “She may have started it, but _I’m_ for sure gonna end it. Being so nasty to Benny like that! Oh, she is just _wrong!_ ”

“Give her my best,” Ray sang out, closing the door behind her. He leaned on it and gave himself up to a laugh. Oh, Frannie! Riding into battle. And not because Ma was being nasty to Ray, but because she’d been so rotten to Fraser. Some things just didn’t change in a hurry.

Gee, it’d been ages since he’d eaten. And there was Dief, jumping in through the window. “Hey, Dief,” he said to the wolf. “Deli?”

Gosh, it was pretty out—nice and brisk. Get his shoes on. Put a jacket on. Take a walk in the park. Get something nice for supper tonight, something not too hard to cook: feed up Fraser before—

He was whistling when his feet hit the sidewalk.

——

“Bed,” Ray said drowsily, “is just the right place to eat pizza.”

Fraser chuckled and stretched languidly. Outside, the city was settling in for sleep. He had a warm feeling that he was settling in for no sleep at all.

“And naked,” Ray said, “is just the right _way_ to eat pizza.” He picked a piece of mushroom off the top of the pizza and put it to Fraser’s lips.

 _No_ , Fraser thought, mouthing the mushroom and the fingers that held it, _bit by small, tempting bit is the right way to eat pizza_. He licked the fingers thoroughly, catching every drop of pizza sauce.

Ray was grinning at him, then closing in for a long, pizza-flavored kiss.

Pizza in bed with Ray. Fraser had been completely unprepared for it, for the clear-eyed smile that welcomed him home after work. That Ray had recovered quickly was not really a surprise: during all those days of Ray’s bout with flu, his temperature had resolutely never risen above 37.1 degrees Celsius—perfectly normal—and his ability to eat rich foods had never wavered. His illness had been more of the heart than of the body. But Fraser would guard that secret like he would guard Ray: with his life.

But so suddenly— Francesca’s visit, her demonstration of loyalty revitalizing him—that was unexpected. She had been a shocked presence in the background during Fraser’s visit with their mother; he had assumed that the shock was at his and Ray’s relationship, and not at the fury that possessed Mrs. Vecchio when she saw him.

And so this: Ray cheerful and tender and brisk, moving with his usual vigor, quick with his usual jokes, fervent with his usual passion. So, pizza in bed with Ray, after lovemaking, before more lovemaking and falling asleep to the sound of Ray’s heartbeat and waking to that sweet, sleepy face.

So, toss the empty pizza box to the floor, to be nosed by a disappointed Diefenbaker; watch the last piece of pizza being bitten into; feel the joy that bubbled through his veins like meltwater in spring; see the hazel eyes brighten at a lascivious thought; observe the last bite of pizza being swallowed; lick the remaining sauce from the long fingers; tongue the drop of sauce from the warm lower lip; and so begin.

——

The weird thing was that nobody at the precinct seemed to know. Somehow, Ray had figured that if Ma knew and Frannie knew, then everybody at work would somehow know; but they didn’t. They just treated him like usual: mostly ignored him.

“Oh, hey, I hope you’re feeling better,” Elaine said, just before she got huffy about something he asked for.

“Ah, Detective Vecchio,” Welsh said, giving him the once-over. “Glad to see you looking so well. Will I get that report today?”

“Were you gone?” Huey said.

Yep—just like usual. Unsolved cases piled on his desk; phone messages scattered over them like fallen leaves.

Life as usual. Except now he was going home to Fraser, which jacked up his whole day, even when the drunken perp threw up on him. Going home to Fraser made the ego bruises and small failures that went with cop work all worthwhile.

“Hey, I didn’t tell you—they erased you,” Elaine said, handing him the printout he’d asked for.

“ _Excuse_ me, Elaine?”

“Yeah—it was funny. For some reason the computer kept pulling out all your cases and putting them in a file. And then sometimes it would pull from that file instead of the real one. Strange. They erased it. I hope they fixed the thing; I got kind of tired of reading about your old cases. You really brought in that Alessandra Willson a lot.”

Aless. Oh, damn. “Is she still here?” he asked.

“No. Out on bail. Weird, because it was pretty high. She doesn’t strike me as the kind with that kind of connections.”

She didn’t strike Ray as that kind, either. But he was glad she’d made bail: he hated to think of her in jail. She was such an entertaining informant. The arrest would only put her in more solid with her fellow scumbags, who assumed that somebody who got brought in as often as she did wouldn’t be inclined to help the cops. Ray grinned. They were wrong, though he suspected that she gave him info less out of any sense of civic duty, than because she had a thing for him. Usually she didn’t make bail very quick; this was unusual. But he filed it away in his head and went on to the other stuff that had piled up while he’d been out sick.

And felt his heart start to race as the afternoon wore on and it was closer to time to go home to Fraser.

Home. To Fraser. Now, those were three of the sweetest words Ray knew.

——

Fraser knew there was something more to do; he simply could not bring it to mind. He ran the list through his mind as he stood sentry. Permits: yes. Accomodations confirmed: yes. Catering; train; laundry facilities: yes; yes; yes. Thirty-two Illinois-Welcomes-You packets: yes. Bomb-sniffing dog for the train: yes—though its handler seemed puzzled when Fraser asked about searching for the components of a nuclear weapon. Unfortunate. Fraser didn’t want yet another train carrying the Musical Ride to spark yet another nuclear incident. Once was enough.

Fraser sighed: a sigh undetectable to those around him, but still cleansing. There was something more to do, but he couldn’t think what. Whatever it was, he would think of it eventually.

Instead he gave himself over to the pleasure of thinking about Ray Vecchio. Chicken tonight for supper; eaten at the table. _And Ray_ , he thought facetiously, _for dessert_. Toothsome, satisfying, and—he chuckled inwardly—low-fat. Thinking of that snug bottom, of the wiry arms, Fraser thought, _Extremely low-fat_.

Ray all night in his arms; Ray grumbling that Fraser was stealing the blanket; Ray protesting how cool the floor was in the morning—Fraser reminded himself to find a nice, thick rug for Ray’s side of the bed. Ray holding the front door closed with one hand and pressing Fraser against it for a long, delicious kiss before they went to breakfast. Lovely.

This offset Ray leaving his soiled clothing on the floor next to the hamper instead of actually putting it _in_ to the hamper; Ray grumbling in the middle of the night about having to dress and go down the hall to use the toilet; Ray demonstrating how cool the floor was by putting his icy feet on Fraser’s back when he returned to bed. Loving Ray without a soupçon of irritation wasn’t really loving Ray.

Fraser let his mind glide over the possibilities of the evening to come—and of the weekend to come, for that matter. Amazing how many combinations and variations of kissing, stroking, licking, nuzzling, sucking, nibbling, thrusting, and caressing he could think up to try on that responsive body. Why, even after six months of almost constant experimentation, he could think of dozens yet to explore.

And then, of course, there were the private fantasies. Fraser could feel himself flushing; he hoped observers would credit it to the reflection of his dress uniform. He had never thought of himself as an imaginative man, had never felt the need to spice lovemaking with elaborate fantasies. But, sometimes, while Ray thrust deliciously into him, Fraser would become in his mind a slave pleasuring his beloved master; and, once or twice, to Fraser’s shame Ray became a conquering warrior raping an unruly prisoner into submission. Better keep those private—at least for now.

Ray’s fantasies, however, they had begun to explore—at least the simpler ones. Like making love in his own bed.

One day last summer, a day in the middle of a week they both had off, they had gone to Ray’s house to pick up some papers—an insurance form or registration for something; Fraser couldn’t remember just what. What he did remember was the soft silence there, the emptiness of a house where everyone was out. Dust motes sparkled in the slant of sunlight in the foyer.

“Oh, yeah, I forgot: Ma’s got her women’s meeting today,” Ray said. “Everybody’s out all afternoon. Now, where did I put that?”

Fraser watched him search through a paper-littered desk.

“Gee, it’s quiet,” Ray said. “Did I have it over—” He went to an end table.

“Gosh,” Ray said, pausing in his search. “The fantasies I’ve had about having you here. You waiting in bed for me at night. You and me in my bed—” He ducked his head with a smile and reached under the couch to feel around.

Fantasies of Fraser waiting to make love in Ray’s bed. Fraser felt his breath quicken. He looked at the kneeling figure bent in its search and felt a stirring in his groin. Making love in Ray’s bed. Ray wasn’t the only one with those fantasies.

Ray climbed to his feet, snapped his fingers. “Dining room,” he said.

Fraser walked ahead of him into the foyer, then paused and started for the stairs, hands busy.

“Where you goin’?” Ray said.

“Upstairs.” Fraser’s shirt was unbuttoned now; he removed it as he climbed the first flight and folded it over his arm. His hands went to his belt.

“What for?”

Fraser paused at the landing and smiled down at the sunlit figure, long enough to see understanding dawn in the astonished face. “Don’t forget to lock us in tight,” he said. Ray almost tripped in his scamper for the dining room.

Fraser smiled as he started up the next flight. Wanton. He felt pleasantly wanton, undressing on his way to Ray’s room, to wait naked in Ray’s bed for lovemaking in the middle of the day. Ray’s skin bathed in sunlight; Ray’s ardent gasps harsh in Fraser’s ears. He had become a wanton creature; he even liked rolling the word on his tongue: “wanton.”

He dropped the clothing on the floor of Ray’s room, so wanton that he did not even much care if the clothing wrinkled. A quick gesture, and the counterpane and top sheet drifted to the floor. He stretched out on his side, naked on the naked bed, hand automatically going to his hardening penis, to stroke it into evident arousal.

Ray’s bed, where he had lain nights, thinking of this moment, thinking of Fraser, perhaps thrashing in silent, solitary orgasm. Fraser’s hand went to caress the sheet. Ray’s scent rose from the mattress and the pillows, overwhelming him so that his penis hardened without touch. He stretched luxuriously on the smooth sheet and cradled his head in his arms, smiling at the pound of footsteps on the stairs. He licked his lips. Wanton.

Fraser smiled at the figure in the doorway gaping at the naked man clearly ready for an afternoon of love.

“Did you find it?” Fraser said after a long moment.

“Uh—yeah.” In a squeak.

Good.

Ray closed the door, locked it. His hands seemed everywhere at once, divesting him of his clothing while he stared at Fraser. Fraser turned and rose to his knees, spreading them. He leaned onto his elbows. Now. He was going to be entered, and he was going to make a _lot_ of noise; fill the empty house with passionate sounds. Indulge himself and Ray. Fulfill the fantasies; build a memory for Ray, to last him through the solitary nights—to last them _both_ through the solitary nights.

He heard Ray striding around the bed and looked over his shoulder at him, feasting his eyes on the engorging penis, feasting his ears on Ray’s sudden sharp intake of breath. Lust washed through him. He would indulge his own appetite, drain every lustful sigh from Ray. Fraser stretched. Now. Oh, god, _now_.

Ray fumbled at the drawer in the bedside table, almost dropping the condom and the tube of jelly he took from it. The cool jelly only stoked Fraser’s desire: he leaned back against the penetrating fingers, pumping his hips as if the fingers were the penis he craved. Ray’s groan was maddening.

Then the fingers were gone, and the penis was easing into their place. Hands on his hips, guiding him back to impale himself on that delicious heat. Hand firm around his penis.

He groaned into the pillow, then lifted his head to groan louder. “ _Yes!_ ” he said. “Oh, yessss.”

“Ah, geez,” Ray groaned. His hips fell into the rhythm Fraser was seeking.

Thrust back onto that burning fullness, slide forward to feel the exquisite friction; Fraser’s moans of pleasure fell into the rhythm of the pumping hips, echoed Ray’s groans behind him.

Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes, yes. Yes, yes, _yes_. _Yes_ —

And the rhythm sharpening now, Ray’s cries building a climax in Fraser’s groin.

“Oh, god, _Fraser_ ,” Ray moaned. “Oh, Benny, _Benny_ —”

Hips frantic against his buttocks; firm hand frantic on his penis; his own hips pumping hard, seeking release, release—

It poured out of him in an instant of howling pleasure intensified by Ray’s cry, by the sensation of that magnificent penis spasming inside him. Fraser’s hips jerked of their own volition, milking the last bit of pleasure from the moment.

The rasp of their breathing filled the quiet room, the silent house. Eased onto the semen-dampened bed, Fraser smiled as he turned to take Ray into his arms. The slight ache between his buttocks was delicious. Wanton. Truly wanton.

He laved the gasping mouth with his tongue, twining his legs with Ray’s. He scoured the sweat from Ray’s throat, dipped his finger just into the cleavage of Ray’s buttocks and licked off the accumulated sweat. Musk of Ray. The salty musk of love.

Ray’s heart thudded against his own. He smiled down into a love-softened smile.

“Oh, you were _noisy_ ,” Ray murmured.

“You made me noisy,” Fraser accused gently. “You brought it out of me. You and your fantasies and your strong, beautiful hands and your thick, beautiful penis, and those—well, those _ears_ that I just have to—” He sucked an earlobe into his mouth.

Ray’s groan was half laughter. “Ah, god, and you always struck me as the quiet type,” he said.

“It’s your fault,” Fraser went on. “I was such a nice, _quiet_ young man before I met you and your hard, beautiful buttocks and your hard, beautiful nipples and your—” Ray’s laughter drowned the rest.

Naked in the naked bed, they gazed at each other.

“We probably better get going,” Ray said. His voice sounded half-hearted.

“You said no one’s coming home for a while,” Fraser reminded him. “Do you know I once almost ravished you in this bed?”

“Huh?”

“That night I spent here after the fire. We kissed that next morning, and I came very close to ravishing you on this very bed.” Ray’s hazel eyes were on his, huge. “The hiss of those silk pyjamas against your silky backside, rustling to the floor.” Ray’s breathing deepened. “Bending you over the edge of the bed, feasting my eyes on your alabaster skin in the moonlight.” Ray’s leg twitched between Fraser’s; his foot began to stroke the calf of Fraser’s leg gently, gently. “Parting those firm, round cheeks. Inserting myself between them and thoroughly taking my pleasure there again, and again, and again, and—”

Ray groaned, his chest heaving. “We got no moonlight,” he gasped.

“I know. Perhaps some other time.” But he had planted a fantasy in Ray’s fertile brain. Wanton. “Perhaps we could go out into the country some moonlit night, find a deserted lane.”

“ _A-a-a-ah_.”

“Bend you over the hood of the Buick.” Fraser grinned as Ray started to laugh. “Trousers down to your knees, moonlight gleaming on your buttocks—”

“Cock getting whacked off in the grillwork,” Ray finished, laughing. “ _No_ thanks!”

Fraser laughed.

“Let’s see, bend _you_ over something,” Ray said musingly. “Ravish you repeatedly in spite of your virginal cries. Someplace Canadian—ooh, your office desk! With the Dragon Lady right next door, oblivious to your helpless cries.”

“We’d have to do without the moonlight,” Fraser said. “She’s only there during the day.”

“Well, sunlight, then. Less romantic, but definitely kinkier. I really like the desk idea. Maybe _my_ desk. Think anybody’d notice?”

“Perhaps if I weren’t in the dress uniform.”

Ray was smiling at him. Then Ray was kissing him, the first kiss since they had entered the house. Joy sang in Fraser’s blood. An afternoon together in the empty house.

“So,” he said, “what _other_ fantasies have you had about me being in this house?”

Mrs. Vecchio’s automobile had turned onto the street just as they had driven away.

 _Wanton_ , Fraser thought now, standing unblinking while the tourist took his photograph. _Love has made you wanton_.

Sunlight shimmered on the windows opposite the Consulate, reflecting a web of light onto him. He felt caught in a golden glow. Love. Wantonness. They were both such lovely feelings.

——

Lovely. Watching Fraser wash dishes, knowing they’d probably be going to bed in just about a minute or two was lovely. Ray leaned back in the chair, enjoying the way Fraser looked from the rear, shifting and stretching as he washed dish after dish.

“Hey—whattaya want to do this weekend?” he asked, knowing the answer.

Fraser turned, half-washed tin plate in his hand, and gave him a lascivious smile. Yep, just what Ray had thought.

“You know I got Monday off, too,” he offered.

“Oh?”

“Columbus Day.”

Fraser stopped. “But Columbus Day is _tomorrow_.”

“We observe it Monday.”

“That’s never made sense to me.”

“Fraser, it’s every American’s god-given right to get every Monday off that the law will allow. It’s one of the things we fought the Revolution for.”

Fraser’s look this time was more exasperation than lust. “Ray, I seriously doubt that a group of colonies rode roughshod over England and declared itself an independent country so you could have Mondays off.”

“It’s an _expression_ , Fraser.”

“Yes—one every American seems to use every five days or so.”

“Well, you at least gotta agree with the Columbus Day part: after all, when he discovered the New World, he discovered Canada, too.”

“Well, Ray, ‘discovered’ is open to interpretation, as is Columbus’ role in North American history. After all, the Vikings landed in Newfoundland centuries before Columbus was even born; and even before that—”

And he was off and lecturing. Ray cheerfully tuned him out, preferring to focus on the lecturer. The way Fraser practically lived in his uniform just killed Ray, especially when Fraser was doing something domestic like dishes. Stern Mountie boots and regulation Mountie pants—and a dish towel tied around the regulation Mountie waist, and that little brush people use to clean out glasses being wielded with precision. Fraser was describing some rune stone somebody either had or hadn’t planted in Minnesota. Ray grinned at the regulation Mountie back. _Damn, Vecchio, you’re such a sap when you’re in love_. Yep. Maybe he should just go kiss the dishwasher.

Which he did; and it started something that ended up with the sheets in a tangle on the floor and them tangled naked in the sheets.

Ray leaned back against the trunk Fraser had by the bed. It wasn’t in the usual place; it had shifted during one of their more intense moments, vibrating out of position while they’d— He smiled at Fraser, relaxed across his lap, head and shoulders propped against the wall. Damn—how had Fraser come up with _that?_

Sometimes after they’d made love, Fraser had this kind of dreamy look in his eyes that, combined with the tousled hair and the flush of lovemaking and the sheen of sweat, made him look positively edible. He had it now. Ray bent and kissed him, grunting as some hard-ridden body parts protested; he slid his mouth over the relaxed lips, glided the tip of his tongue along them as they parted. Edible.

“Who’d’a thunk it?” Ray said languidly.

Fraser laughed. “And there’s more where that came from.”

“I just bet.”

“Yes. My imagination seems to be limitless where you’re concerned.”

“Flattering.”

Fraser held Ray’s eyes with his. “Inspiring.”

They looked at each other for a warm minute.

“I always thought you’d be kinda—conventional,” said Ray.

Fraser chuckled.

“I mean—jeez, Fraser, you just don’t come off like the kind of guy who’d come up with half the stuff you do.”

Flicker of a frown, quickly smoothed out. “You know, Ray, it’s a bit—annoying that people see politeness and attention to etiquette as, well, being _repressed_.”

“Oh, you’re not _repressed_ , Fraser. You’re anything but _repressed_. Boy, do I know you’re certainly not _repressed_.”

“Yes, Ray, but— Sometimes people seem to treat me as if I were some fluttery virgin.”

Ray laughed. No virgin would have just done _that_.

“I mean, I’m a human being. _I_ have— _I_ have a—less polite side.”

“Of course you do, Fraser. Now, me, I get just the opposite. I get people forgetting I got feelings.”

Fraser’s eyes widened in alarm. “Ray, I—”

Oh, some Mounties …. “Not _you_ , Fraser. _Other_ people.”

“Well, Ray, you do rather—protect yourself. Armor yourself in mistrust of people.”

“Trust can do you in, Fraser.”

“It can also free you, Ray.”

Yeah, well. “That only works for Canadians.” He flirted a smile at Fraser’s exasperated frown. “My neighborhood, you learned early that people can be basically rotten. Not just Frankie Zuko; _I_ did some rotten things as a kid. Every kid does.”

“Not every kid, Ray.”

“Yeah, Fraser, I bet you were helping little old lady polar bears across the ice just as soon as you could walk.”

“Well, I wouldn’t go that far. I just learned early that consideration for others is—important.”

“Yeah, well, some people call that repressed.”

“It’s not repressed, Ray. It’s—thoughtfulness.”

Fraser eased himself up, sitting against the wall, his legs across Ray’s. He didn’t look so relaxed any more.

“You can’t tell me you were this polite as a kid. It’s not natural.”

“Ray, it’s just as natural to be polite as it is to be rude.”

“Yeah, but—didn’t you ever do _any_ thing rotten as a kid?”

Fraser paused, then gave him what Ray thought of as that bright, blue-eyed smile—the one where his dimples and his honest looks were supposed to keep you from noticing that you weren’t getting a complete answer. “I once tried to feed a book to a passing walrus,” Fraser said.

But Ray wasn’t buying any today, and he let his expression show it. The smile part froze on Fraser’s face; the blue eyes studied him for a minute.

Then Fraser relaxed and rested his head against the wall, still watching him. “Would you still love me if I weren’t—” He stopped.

“—perfect?” Ray finished after a minute. His heart was softening like warm wax. “Oh, yeah, Fraser.”

Fraser’s look was doubtful, like he didn’t really believe it. Then,

“Sometimes I don’t really like myself,” Fraser said softly, looking away. His legs across Ray’s lap felt tense. “I think I’m too judgmental. Or—or not judgmental enough …. And sometimes even _I’m_ not sure if I’m being courteous out of—” He hesitated and then laughed. “—out of _courtesy_ , or—or out of fear.”

“Fear of what?”

Fraser focused on him then, the blue eyes wary. “Of—” He looked at Ray for a minute. “Would you really love me if I—”

“—didn’t memorize the name of everybody in the phonebook on the off chance you might run into them one day?” Ray finished for him. Fraser laughed, but his eyes stayed wary. “Oh, yeah, Fraser.” And, oh, god, he meant it. Even though he hadn’t exactly liked what he thought of as That Other Mountie—the guy Fraser had become when he’d lost his memory that time. The rude guy, who acted just like every other selfish, thoughtless person there was in the world. But _Fraser_ — Well, Fraser kind of over did the politeness thing; he could afford to relax a little, at least around Ray. Ray could take it. But how to say what really motivated him? “That extra stuff is—well, it’s damn _nice_ , but—but I’d love you without it.” And, oh, dear sweet god he meant every word.

But Fraser wasn’t finished. “But mostly I’m afraid of—” He studied Ray for a minute. “Of—” A couple of heartbeats. “Of—of—what might come out,” Fraser finally whispered. His face stiffened. He was watching Ray.

Ray regarded him for a minute. What to say? He’d known for a long time what lurked deep inside Fraser: seen it at the very beginning in the satisfaction when a would-be assassin went over a cliff; in the desperate run after Victoria Metcalfe at the train station; in the smothered fury when they’d babysat his father’s murderer. Fraser was nobody’s cuddly little kitten. He’d been scraped and scalded by life, and part of him wanted to snarl and lash out; Ray had come to recognize that. Perhaps because it was all too familiar in himself. But what to say?

Ray leaned forward and placed his mouth on Fraser’s: firm, no nonsense. Not a sexual kiss; but Fraser’s breathing was ragged at the end of it. Not a come-hither kiss; but Fraser’s eyes were wide when he looked at Ray.

“You and me,” Ray told him, “we got the same jungle inside us. Only I let mine take over once in a while, and you try to cover yours over in concrete.” Oh, that was just dumb. But he couldn’t think of another way to put it. “It keeps cracking the concrete, and then you just pour more on. But it’s just gonna keep coming through the concrete. You got to—” Got to what, Dr. Sigmund Vecchio? “You got to—you got to look at all of it, so you can find your way through it. And find your way out of it when you need to.” Oh, that was just _stupid_.

But Fraser was looking at him like he’d just invented relativity. “And would you—would you _love_ me if I—if I let—that part of me—” Deep breath. “If I let that part of me—out?” Such wary blue eyes.

They’d been here before. “Oh, yeah, Fraser.” Geez, his heart was racing. “But—but would you love— _me?_ ”

Fraser’s eyes softened; his tongue flickered over his bottom lip. “Oh, yeah, Ray,” he said softly.

And he leaned over and pinned Ray to the trunk in a kiss that just confirmed it.

So this was probably why a few days later, naked against the naked Mountie, Ray listened with astonishment to the sound of his own handcuffs clicking around his wrists, looked up into eyes suddenly distant as a clear winter sky. “Fr—” he said, before the handkerchief was shoved in his mouth and bound there by another.

Ray squirmed against the mattress, trying to sit up. As often as he’d joked about handcuffs and sex, he’d never actually thought he’d like the combination: too reminiscent of childhood helplessness, of somebody else—somebody _untrustworthy_ —calling the shots, with him unable to protect himself. The goosebumps that suddenly prickled his skin all over weren’t because he was cold.

Fraser was kneeling over him, keeping him flat, his cuffed hands a knot between the mattress and the small of his back. Helpless. The thumping of his heart may have been that or it may have been Fraser’s nearness or it may have been fear.

Fraser smiled down at him—a smile with an edge to it. Ray tried to smile back through the gag. Fraser’s lips grazed his forehead, his temple, his ear. “Well, Ray—” Fraser’s whisper was a tickle in his ear. “—you _did_ invite me to explore the jungle inside me.” His tongue traced the structure of Ray’s ear. “Don’t you trust me?”

Ray’s back stiffened. Oh, god, didn’t he— He drew a ragged breath. Didn’t he, after all this time together, after all they’d been through together, didn’t he— Well, usually, he’d say, “yes,” but—but, now—

The blue eyes were implacable. “Don’t you trust me?” said the soft mouth he’d plundered so often.

Ray looked up into the depthless eyes. Didn’t he? This was Benny. Didn’t he trust Benny with his whole heart? Well, with his heart, yes, but—but didn’t he trust Benny with his whole body?

His nod seemed a little jerky, but he didn’t think Fraser noticed. After all, he _did_ trust Fraser. Yeah— _really_. Really truly.

Fraser’s eyes had warmed; his smile was more like normal. “Good.” His warm mouth made its way down the side of Ray’s throat.

Ray’s eyes closed of themselves. Okay. _This_ was good—he liked this. This was actually kind of better than good, even with the handcuffs, because—well, he wasn’t exactly sure why.

“ _Now_ then.” And the touch of fabric across his eyes jolted him. Ray thrashed, but it did no good: Fraser was in charge now, and he simply tied the blindfold just like Ray was cooperating.

Fraser’s hands were gentle on his shoulders. “You can’t have stopped trusting me, Ray.” His voice was gentle and sounded a little disappointed.

Oh, _couldn’t_ he? Ray tried to will his muscles into relaxing. Quit panicking, Vecchio. This was _Fraser_ doing all this; Fraser wouldn’t hurt you; Fraser _loves_ you. And all the time, at the back of his mind a little voice was saying, _Damn it, Vecchio, you had to open your big, dumb mouth, had to try to talk Dudley Do-Right into walking on the wild side. Why do you have to do that? Huh? Just to needle him? Just to prove that really, after all, deep down, he’s really no better than you?_

He barely felt Fraser’s hands skimming his chest, focusing instead on keeping himself limp. See, Fraser? I trust you. Really.

A pause, then Fraser’s mouth at his throat again, teeth sliding down to his collarbone. Little nibble here and here. Oh, Fraser was taking forever. This was never gonna be over.

Fraser’s mouth at Ray’s lower lip, teasing it out from under the gag, sucking on it. Kinky. Kinkier when Fraser started chewing, then bit hard enough to startle, then sucked on it some more, soothing where he’d bitten. Heat was gathering in Ray’s groin. His hands were falling asleep. He moaned against Fraser’s mouth, though maybe not at the cramp starting in his arms, but at the chewing Fraser was doing again on his bottom lip. More tongue, then a final nip—a hard one, this time, hard enough so the pain lingered.

Side of his neck, and top of shoulder, touched only with teeth and hot mouth, cooling where Fraser’s tongue had lingered. Funny how you noticed things you wouldn’t if you could watch that slack rosebud mouth against your skin, see those fingers twine themselves in chest hair.

Tongue circling his nipple, now; brief pause; then teeth gently tugging before the tongue came back. Teeth delicately worrying the tender nipple bud, gripping harder and harder; and then, just as it really began to hurt, mouth sucking hard, tongue roughing the throbbing nipple in a way that was damned far from being unpleasant.

Teeth and tongue exploring the other nipple, now, bolder, sucking harder. Then mouth sliding across his ribs, tracing each one. Dryness of lips and wetness of tongue. Ray shifted. His cock was hardening, and his hips were twitching, aching to thrust.

Benny astride him now, soft ass brushing his thighs, bumping the tip of his cock, hard thighs gripping his hips. Husky breathing as hands explored the softness of his belly. Was Benny smiling at him all laid out for his enjoyment, all helpless against those hands? Ah, jeez, Fraser might do _any_ thing. Ray’s moan was smothered in the gag.

Sudden shift, then tongue against navel. Lingering over his lower belly. He tried to keep his hips from lifting themselves to offer his cock for Benny’s mouth. Benny was calling the shots; this was Benny’s party.

Hands rearranging him, and then the gentle tongue enjoying the sensitive back of his knee. His groan was half disappointment and half appreciation. Mouth sliding up the inside of one thigh, teeth nipping it harder and harder as Fraser came closer and closer to Ray’s balls. Ray found himself catching a deeper and deeper breath with each flash of ecstatic pain. Would Fraser stop before he did something that really hurt? Would Ray be able to stand it if he did stop?

Fraser’s teeth grazing Ray’s balls now, so exquisite that Ray groaned. A pause. Then those teeth on Ray’s cock. Ray was limp, with pleasure and with fear and with, he realized, a dread that Fraser would stop. Don’t stop. Don’t ever stop, Fraser. The exquisite pain of teeth just gripping the head of his cock was just this side of pleasure.

And then the light scrape of the teeth all the way down his cock, and a quick, hard suck that lifted his hips, before the mouth went away and Fraser’s hands yanked him by the ankles so his ass rested on the edge of the bed. Fraser spread Ray’s legs wide, ran his hands up Ray’s thighs, thumbnails scoring a line of delicious fire. A tug at Ray’s waist brought him up to sit, swaying.

Pain radiated up his arms as blood rushed back into them; he wiggled his fingers to get the deadness out. The pins and needles in his hands and arms, the throbbing of his cock, the roughness of the rug under his feet, the tingles of pain where Fraser had used his teeth, the dryness of the gag, the fading ache where Fraser’s thumbnails had dug into his thighs, the sweetness of Fraser’s strong arms circling him, the smoothness of Fraser’s hands caressing his ass while Fraser’s mouth worked his neck and Fraser’s hard cock stabbed his thigh—it all just—it just— _Oh, Benny, do what you want with me—I’m yours, I’m yours, I’m yours_.

Then, light, and Ray blinked. Benny’s face was right there, almost too close to focus on. Sweat on the flushed face. The heat in those blue eyes could have melted cold steel.

“So, do you trust me?” Benny asked.

Ray’s nod was languid.

“Do you really trust me—trust me to do whatever I want?” Husky whisper right in his ear.

Ray’s heart jumped like a startled rabbit, but he held Benny’s eyes as he nodded. And was rewarded by one of Benny’s sunny smiles, the kind that could ignite wet paper.

Ray wasn’t wet paper. And, oh god, his bones were melting as Fraser wrapped him in strong arms, dragging him close, taking that lower lip again into a mouth hot and warm and busy with teeth and tongue.

Fraser’s cock slid against his, then that burning cock was hard against his belly, then harder, as Fraser’s hand clutched his ass tighter, tighter. The other hand was on the back of Ray’s neck; oh, god, he couldn’t get away if he tried. Helpless, with Benny still calling the shots.

Ray’s legs wrapped themselves around Fraser’s hips, clamping tight, grinding his cock against Fraser’s belly. Heat against heat; helpless to do anything but ride that silky belly. He pressed his heels against Fraser’s sides.

Then Fraser gathered him closer, fingers bruisingly tight on his ass, cock sliding against his sweat-slick belly, riding it, riding it. A shift in Fraser’s breathing.

And a sense of being weightless, before something cold and hard touched his shoulders, his arms. Oh, god, the wall—Benny had actually picked him up and gotten them both over against a wall. Ray’s arms were being pinched between his body and the wall, but oh it was exquisite: animal growling from Benny’s hot mouth against his bottom lip, matching his own, Benny’s ass clenching in the circle of Ray’s legs, hard fingers clutching his ass, big hand gripping the back of his neck, slick belly, searing cock, click of handcuffs hitting hard plaster, clicking harder, clicking faster, faster, faster, fast—

His groin exploded just as Benny ground his hips into Ray’s belly, smothering Ray’s raw cry with one of his own. Wetness flooded between them. Ray tightened his legs, riding both orgasms for as long as he could. Oh, his breath—he would never catch his breath. Benny’s body jerked against his once, twice, again.

Then half a heartbeat, and Benny’s hand left his ass, to thump onto the wall beside them. Legs. Unlock legs and try to stand. It sort of worked, especially if he propped himself against the wall.

Fraser’s eyes were soft—tenderness still colored with lust. Slowly, he worked the gag out of Ray’s mouth; Ray grimaced as Fraser drew out the handkerchief. Cotton. Really dried out the mouth. At last a good, deep breath. Then Fraser’s hand steadied his chin, and Fraser’s mouth was on his, wet tongue sliding over Ray’s dry one, dampening the inside of his cheeks, the roof of his mouth. Thank you very kindly, but that’s not going to substitute for a good drink of water.

But he took it as it was intended, and he leaned in for some gentle nuzzling, breathing in the smell of sweat and Fraser and what they’d just done together. Back to the bed on unsteady legs, where Fraser unlocked the handcuffs and eased the cramp out of Ray’s shoulders and arms with fingers as gentle now as they’d been bruising earlier.

Oh, lovely to stretch out on the rumpled bed, Fraser’s hands deft on his shoulders and his back. Lovelier still to feel Fraser stretch out beside him and gather him close.

“That,” Ray said, “was wild.”

Fraser’s low chuckle rumbled against his chest.

“I thought you were gonna get out the whips and chains there, for a minute,” Ray went on.

“Wasn’t that enough for you?” Surprise in wide Mountie eyes.

“Oh, yeah—sure. I just wasn’t—I mean, you really might of—”

“Ray!” The eyes were wider now. “Do you think I could actually—I could actually _hit_ you? I could never do that, Ray, not after what you’ve said about your fath— I could never do that. And—actually— _hurting_ you. I could never do that.”

Ray ran his fingers through Benny’s hair, smiling languidly at him. Oh, yeah, Ray had known that all along. Really. His heart thumped happily, and he slid his leg over Fraser’s, drawing him closer. Fraser was watching him.

“You know, Ray, I—I know the darkness inside me, intimately. What you said about the jungle inside me the other night: I’ve explored that jungle; I know all its paths. I have to: how could I make a good law officer if I don’t know what people are capable of when they’re frightened, when they’re pushed, when they’re desperate? I don’t repress my emotions; I simply don’t act on all of them. I’m capable of—” He swallowed, hard; his eyes slid away and then returned. Ray’s grip tightened. “I can let passion ruin my life—I can let passion destroy—” Another swallow; hold him tighter. “I can let passion destroy everyone around me. I can let hatred kill and be glad it’s done so. But, Ray—” Fraser’s hand was gentle on Ray’s cheek. “Ray, knowing the shadows in the human soul, I can also choose kindness. I know you sometimes think my devotion to the law is exaggerated and my devotion to courtesy is old-fashioned and laughable—” He grinned at Ray grinning at him. “—but—but, Ray, it gives me a framework for helping others, a structure for my best impulses. Ray, you said you would love me if I weren’t so—” Oh, hey, he was turning a new shade of red: Flushed Mountie. “If I weren’t so—” _Say it, Fraser; c’mon, you can say it_. “If I weren’t so—so—perfect.” They both started to breathe again. “You said you’d love me if I weren’t so courteous.

“But, Ray—would you still love me even if I were?”

 _Geez, Vecchio, how the hell do you get yourself into these things? How’d your life get to be like this? Would you love Fraser even if he expressed those deep, dark, hidden urges to do good things; would you love him even if he was Mr. Nice Guy Mountie—and these were serious questions. Vecchio, you sure can pick ’em._ The grin that plastered itself on his face felt goofy, but he tried to give the questions and the questioner the seriousness they deserved.

“Oh, yes, Fraser. Oh, very much yes, Fraser. Bounce me off walls, bounce me on feather beds, beat me with chains, treat me like glass—I’d still love you. Keep me waiting in the cold while you hold the door for five thousand people with shopping bags, and I’ll still love you. Silly of me, I know it, but—but, damn it, Fraser, I’ll love you no matter what.”

Amazing what a couple of words could do: Benny’s face was glowing. Seal it with a kiss.

When they came up for air, Fraser was grimacing. “Well, Ray, the wall-bouncing may have to wait a bit: I think I strained a muscle when we—”

Ray laughed gently as he reached to massage the offending muscle, smiled at Fraser’s groan of pleasure when he found the right spot, laughed harder as he felt Fraser’s arms slide around him, locking him in a gentle embrace while he warmed to his job. _Ah, Vecchio, you sure can pick ’em. You really, really can_.

——

 _Yes, you really can pick ’em, Fraser_. The breeze frisking down Ontario wasn’t livelier than his heart as he stood motionless outside the Consulate, observing Americans enjoying a Revolution-granted Monday off work. Yes, he could pick them. A teenaged friend, in a sexual experiment that hadn’t really satisfied. Victoria— He took a deep breath. Victoria Metcalfe, in a heart-spinning affair disastrous from the beginning. He took a deeper breath.

But, then Ray Vecchio. Eccentric, tender, jittery, crude, occasionally dishonest, more usually cranky, defensive, mistrustful, and dependable as breath. Also beautiful in sleep, mouth slack, face relaxed and flushed. Quite literally tasty.

And loving. The sweet gesture of a rose left on Fraser’s desk while he had been out on an errand. And— Without actually moving, Fraser tried to ease the muscle he’d strained yesterday in their erotic free-for-all. Yes, loving.

That had been a surprise at first: the urge to show Ray just what might really lurk deep inside Fraser. Actually, the _need_ to show it also had been a surprise. Hadn’t Ray seen Fraser at his worst often enough? Didn’t he yet understand Fraser’s quest to adhere to the virtues of integrity, of responsibility, of selflessness? Did Fraser have to think of himself first _all_ the time? Did every emotion _have_ to be expressed? Hinting that Fraser was—unnatural— It was frustrating.

Honestly: why did people seem so nervous when he tried to follow the sturdy old values? Integrity seemed to startle them; honesty made them suspicious; responsibility—well, responsiblity seemed to make people angry. And selflessness. Fraser sighed. Fail to act on your own wants first, and people said you had a martyr complex. Sort through your emotions before reacting, and people labelled you “repressed.” Put the needs of others ahead of your own, and people called it “masochism.” Sometimes Fraser felt as if he were surrounded by selfish children, greedily grabbing all they could and ignoring those who got trampled in the melee. Why hadn’t Ray yet realized that Fraser couldn’t just turn his back on those who had fallen?

And, really, one didn’t need to follow _every_ emotion. Intoxicating as Ray’s emotional volatility was, there were times when it could be dangerous: witness that headlong rush into Frank Zuko’s house, to save the woman Ray loved, which had ended instead in causing her death. And sometimes it seemed to affect his police work—to tempt him to cut corners. He’d been lucky when he’d urged that female suspect he was infatuated with to run—lucky that she’d turned out to be Special Agent Suzanne Chapin, with Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms, and perhaps equally infatuated with him, since she’d been unwilling to report him.

And some emotions were—well, one could acknowledge them, but acting on them could be hurtful. Rage, for example. Fraser had learned early that rage was useless unless channeled through justice. And lust—well, lust channeled through love was— He felt a glow of warmth build inside him. Lust channeled through love was pretty damn wonderful.

Letting himself go as he’d done the night before. Inspired only by the urge to show Ray of what Fraser might be capable. He’d thought long and hard about it before taking action. Handcuffs, of course—traditional. Gag, so Ray’s protests— Fraser stopped the thought. No, face it, Fraser: so Ray’s protests would go unheeded, because unheard.

Fraser blinked. Well, he would have stopped whatever he was doing if Ray was really uncomfortable. Wouldn’t he? Fraser tried to imagine the scene without the warmth of Ray’s growing arousal, with Ray’s terror and pain evident. Yes, Fraser would. Though—truthfully—after a certain point, no. He wouldn’t. The warmth inside him dissipated. Yes, there _was_ a point after which lust would rule him, after which the drive to plunder that slim body would make him deaf to all protests, blind to all evidence of terror. He shuddered.

“Smile!” the tourist taking his picture called out with a laugh. Yes—Fraser hadn’t heard _that_ joke more than fifteen times a day.

But— But the horrific _hadn’t_ happened. Ray had visibly tried to relax, to trust, even after Fraser had blindfolded him. And the tenderness that had flooded through Fraser at that sight dispelled the chill Fraser felt now. As it had inspired him last night.

The nibbling; the biting. Actually hitting Ray had never been an option: the bruised child that Ray had been was too fresh a memory. And hitting a handcuffed, gagged, blindfolded person was just—revolting.

But nipping and—well, threatening harder bites— Fraser had been astonished. He had—he had _enjoyed_ it, enjoyed taking the roughness further and further— And enjoyed Ray’s reaction. All apprehension that those protests of love Friday night would be revoked once Ray actually experienced Fraser’s unfettered lovemaking vanished in the heat of Ray’s arousal. Of Ray’s tension melting into a trust that ignited an inferno of tenderness and passion that still warmed Fraser.

Ray trusted him. And would continue to trust him. And Ray loved him. And would continue to love him.

And in that simple fact lay the key to depths of passion Fraser couldn’t wait to explore.

——

Exploring wasn’t a lot of fun, judging by old Christopher Columbus’ frown in the picture taped to the window of Mr. Pignotti’s jewelry store. In fact, it must make you paranoid, judging by the untrusting look in old Chris’s eyes.

Ray grinned at him. Poor Columbus: he’d obviously never had a Mountie explore new worlds of wilder impulses on his very receptive body. Ray flexed a shoulder that still felt a bit crampy, pleasantly aware of little tingles from the nibble-marks on the inside of his thighs, of a pleasant sensitivity around his nipples. Memory of teeth on his lower lip, on his cock— _damn_ , that had been good last night. New World—New World Order—new worlds of cooperation between North American nations— Oh, quit it, Vecchio—everything isn’t a double-entendre. Quit it; you’re getting dopey.

Neighborhood Columbus Day parade blaring a block away. He walked to the front door and pulled out his key. Suddenly, anxiety sliced through him like a cold knife. Probably Ma was at the parade, applauding the Sons of Italy float, warming herself in the reflected glow of Columbus’ fame. If she wasn’t—

He put the key in the lock before he could work out the rest of that thought.

House silent. Different. Stuff had been moved around—just the usual, little stuff being moved in daily use, but that he hadn’t been here to see it being moved emphasized that he hadn’t been here for a while. Well, he was here now.

Feeling like a thief, Ray went to his bedroom. Tidy: even mad, Ma wouldn’t neglect a part of her house. He moved quickly, emptying drawers into Fraser’s duffel bag, getting the condoms out of the nightstand, taking his extra bullets and his gun-cleaning kit. At least he’d locked the drawer before he’d left. _Maybe_ Ma wouldn’t have opened it, but he didn’t want to think about how those condoms would have gone over with her.

Downstairs, he searched through the dining room for his mail. There—on the buffet, a stack of stuff addressed to him. He picked it up. Bill on top: he may not be living here, but Ma still seemed to expect him to pay bills. Typical.

Ray paused in the doorway, looking around the foyer as if for the last time. Sick feeling, a guy shut out of his own house, not sure he’d ever speak again to his own family. For a minute he thought about getting old without ever having had another kind word from his mother—

 _Oh, Vecchio_. He snorted, closed the door, and locked it.

Caught in the expected jam of traffic near Ontario, Ray glanced idly through the stack of mail. Christmas catalogs already—maybe Fraser would like that shirt. Matched his eyes. Credit card bill—wow. And something official from the bank—

Ray frowned at the bank statement. Actually, Ma took care of the household account, though it was in Ray’s name. He’d have to go back and leave it for her; Frannie probably had accidentally sorted it into his pile. Some awful-looking statement—

Honking behind him didn’t really register. That statement—what were all those big cash deposits? Not from him; couldn’t be from Frannie—she never had that much money to put into the account. Tony? Could his unemployable brother-in-law have gotten a job and not told anybody? Job that paid in cash—

“All _right!_ All _right!_ ” Ray tossed down the statement and stomped the gas pedal.

Oh, good, there was Fraser. Suddenly whole new worlds opened up in Ray’s imagination. New World Order, indeed.

Old World Order visited him the next day at the office. Aless Willson, still looking like the bride of Dracula, with another member of Dracula’s harem who didn’t look more than fourteen.

“Hi!” she said. “I’m Rache.” Cracking her gum and looking him over in the stomach-turning way of the over-experienced child. Or the wannabe-over-experienced.

“Yeah, Aless.”

“She wanted to tell you about some—stuff.”

So Aless proceeded to tell him about some petty stuff: some smash-and-grab, a little light pickpocketing, jewelry snatched off the necks of tourists—autumn in Chicago. Talking through Rache—first time that happened. And reaching: Ray didn’t usually get this kind of stuff.

Rache was—a pain. Messed up the rapport he and Aless had, knocked stuff over on his desk: his little statue of Lady Liberty went clanking to the floor, and she tried to be flirty when she put it back.

He was glad when they left.

Ray looked at his notes, snorted in disgust. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. He picked up the bank robbery folder and flipped through it. The usual: strip mall—bank vault ripped into via the back wall, which was just the usual brick and plaster. Ray snorted. Typical: the walls in those strip malls weren’t bank-vault solid, but bankers still seemed to think they were. Robbers just ripped right through them. Happened all the time; case reported this morning—broken into over the long weekend. Huey and Dewey would never crack it; thieves probably had done it Sunday and were long gone.

This one was a charmer. Got clean away with $2500. No prints; no witnesses. Ray sighed. No fair. Case like this would stay unsolved forever. He got up and shrugged on his jacket. Make an effort, though; earn his pay. Make the citizens of Chicago feel safer. Not that they’d be any safer after he finished talking to the bank manager this afternoon.

They weren’t any safer the next morning, after talking the case over with Fraser had failed to jump-start any ideas. And they weren’t safer later on in the day, after Ray finished canvassing the neighborhood around the mall. How people couldn’t have heard somebody crashing into the wall of a building, Ray couldn’t imagine, but it happened: he remembered a case where nobody had heard a guy back a truck through the wall of a dry-cleaners, though some people noticed when he strapped the dry-cleaners’ safe to a dolly and towed it away; and even then most of the witnesses claimed they thought it belonged to him.

Ray did what he could, wrote up his report, and mentally filed it under “Unsolved.” He looked at his watch. Half an hour until he could go pick up Fraser at work—

When the phone rang, he jumped. “Vecchio.”

The gum-snapping told him who it was even before she spoke. “Hey! It’s Rache!”

Lovely. “Yeah, Rache.”

“Aless wants to talk to you.” Giggle.

“So tell her to come on by.”

“Naw—she wants to talk to you _here_.” Really long giggle.

Ray sighed. Damn, he hated going to a meet a perp had set up: too easy to walk into a trap. But Aless was usually a good informant. “Where and when?”

“701 Stratmore. Ten o’clock.”

Aw, geez—one of those late-night meets. Well, it was Aless, and for Aless, he’d— “Tell her she better be on time.”

Giggle. “Oh, we will be.” Giggle, and _click!_

Stratmore. Cross street with Octavia—and 701 wasn’t far from Ma’s house. He blinked. Since when had he started thinking about his house as Ma’s house? _Get a grip, Vecchio; since when have you not?_

“ _Vec_ -chio!”

“Yes, sir!”

Welsh was standing in the door of his office, with a piece of paper in his hand.

“Beat cop just caught a homicide over on West Racine—” Ray’s heart stopped, then started again when he saw the address: 1316, nowhere near Fraser’s place at 221. “—Homicide can’t get there right away; they need somebody to start working the scene.”

So he didn’t have half an hour until he could pick up Fraser; he had more like three or four. On his way out, he called the Canadian Consulate and left a message.

——

The message still bothered Fraser—or, more precisely, the fact that it had been placed on top of the rose on his desk still bothered Fraser. He had been out of his office for only fifteen minutes, and both the rose and the message had been delivered in the interim. If Ray had left the rose, then why had he called in the message? And if Ray hadn’t left the rose, then who had?

Stirring the omelet he was making for himself, Fraser laughed. Really. Everything wasn’t a puzzle to be solved; everything wasn’t a mystery. Quit it, Fraser.

Actually, he didn’t want to be suspicious of the rose. It was still such a joyous surprise to have them appear on his desk, day after day. Romantic. It reminded him of last spring, when he and Ray were starting to express their love—or at least Fraser was. Bringing Ray a rose from the Consulate every day, because Ray had casually asked for a long-stemmed Canadian rose—Fraser chuckled, and Diefenbaker paused in crunching his dog food.

“Roses,” Fraser said to him. The wolf seemed uninterested.

Fraser sat in the quiet apartment and tried to eat his omelet. But his mind kept straying to roses and romance and Ray, and the omelet seemed tasteless by comparison. _Really, Fraser—you’re getting giddy_.

It was nice here, alone with Diefenbaker, waiting for Ray. Peaceful: sometimes, now that Ray lived here, the apartment seemed overfull. Fraser felt a twinge of shame at the thought, but Ray did tend to fill whatever room he was in, with his energy and his twitchiness and—well, with his occasional griping. Ray straddling a chair, complaining about Detective Dewey and Detective Huey—why did he find their names so funny? Ray jerking open dresser drawers, keeping up a running monologue about where his favorite socks must be. Ray sprawled on the bed, reading the Sunday _Tribune_ , which seemed to have been designed to cover every centimeter of an apartment with little effort on the part of the reader. _Stop it, Fraser_. He turned his attention back to his cooling omelet.

It was good to have Ray here to be irritated by. His sweet warmth in bed; his humorous comments to Diefenbaker; the pleasure of taking care of the man Fraser loved, of knowing he was safe—it was _very_ good. And—really—Ray no longer seemed to find the place as spartan as he had. Or, at least he had stopped commenting on it.

Fraser liked his apartment. He knew that others felt different about the lack of luxuries, about the unmatched furniture, some of which was a bit worn from earlier owners. But the apartment was simply shelter: Fraser’s real life was lived outside, among the people of Chicago, or in his mind, among the images and information gleaned from thousands of experiences and books. The apartment was simply where he ate and slept and—he grinned—well, where he made love to Ray. Perhaps his real life _was_ being lived in the apartment. Still: a man with few possessions could focus more easily on the people who came into his life. A man with few luxuries didn’t need locks to protect him from the world and all it had to offer.

Eat his tepid omelet. After supper, he would clean the apartment. He would not walk Diefenbaker past the crime scene Ray was working, though they could both use the exercise. He would tidy, and he would dust, and he would do laundry.

Fraser’s eyes surveyed the apartment, noting what had to be done. He really should shake the thick rug on Ray’s side of the bed—

Fraser smiled. Ray had a side of the bed. Ray had a side of the bed, and Ray had a section in the closet, and Ray had drawers in the dresser, and Ray brought Fraser roses— _Oh, stop it, Fraser_. He focused on his cold omelet.

Finish supper. Wash the dishes. Tidy the apartment. Perhaps stop somewhere on the way back from the laundromat and buy some roses. And a newspaper, for Ray to read and scatter through their uncluttered home.

——

Uncluttered. Weird, how it reminded Ray of Fraser’s place—the way it didn’t have a lot of stuff in it, either. Unmade bed; table with a computer on it; chair pulled up to the table; bookcase overflowing with books and boxes of those computer disks; table in the kitchen, with another chair; chest of drawers—and that was it.

Oh, and a body. Sprawled on the floor near the bed, in that sickeningly limp way that emphasized that there was no personality there any more; it was just empty. Surprised look on his face, like death hadn’t been like he’d thought it would be.

Ray looked at the ID. Jeremy Seggebruch, age 23. Damn young to be catching a .38 in the heart, but there was no such thing as too young any more: babies got shot when gang members made the neighborhood a freefire zone; second-graders were killed when drive-by shooters missed their target. Nobody in America was too young, or too old, or too anything to miss out on a violent death.

He wandered through the apartment while the couple of technicians Welsh dug up did their thing. Try to get a feel for the place, before Homicide came and took over—in case Homicide never had time to come and take over.

The feel that he was getting was temporariness: the kid had just gotten here and wasn’t planning to stay long. So no need to get more than a couple bowls or plates, a handful of silverware, a couple of pans. Looking at Fraser’s apartment, Ray had often thought that a man who was planning on leaving soon didn’t need that much stuff, so he’d be ready any time Canada decided to forgive him and bring him home—

 _Oh, knock it off, Vecchio! You got enough here to get anxious about, without bringing your personal life into it_. Fraser wasn’t leaving any time soon; the powers that be wouldn’t be forgiving him any time soon; and, besides, even if they did he’d never leave without—

 _FLASH!_ Ray jumped. Hartzboren, photographing the computer setup. Ray blinked. Just look around, try to figure out why the computer was on and the monitor was on, but it wasn’t showing those little pictures on the screen you always got. Quit thinking about the Mountie and think about your job.

He thought about his job for the next three hours, overseeing the fingerprinting and photographing and searching of the crime scene. It was exhausting work, but, damn, he couldn’t go home yet: he had to meet Aless.

On the way to Stratmore he drove by 2926 North Octavia. Lights on, cars outside—looked normal. Trash out: good. Something in him seemed—well, kind of disappointed that his family was carrying on so well without him. Didn’t need him—

He stomped the gas pedal in disgust at himself.

Area around Stratmore was pretty crowded for ten o’clock; he was hard put to find a parking place. It wasn’t long before he found out why: the Sons of Italy were moving their Columbus Day parade floats to the dump. He grinned at the shadowy saints and crepe-paper Columbuses being eased slowly down the deserted street.

701 was a pizza place. No Aless inside—damn. He stood around outside, wondering if she was going to stand him up, wondering if this was a setup, wondering how long he should wait. Maybe he should get some pizza: he’d had just a donut and a cup of coffee for supper. Drop in and get a couple slices.

“Hey, man.” The young man was swaying, exuding the unmistakable stench of unwashed junkie. Oh, damn. “Hey, man, you got change for a twenty?”

Where the hell had he gotten a twenty? Damn, Ray was too tired to pursue it. Just get rid of him.

“Sure.” Ray took two tens out of his wallet and exchanged them for the twenty, which he squinted at critically under the streetlight before stowing it.

The junkie turned away and then turned back; and Ray’s heart started beating faster. _Okay, kid, let’s see your stuff_ —

“Hey, you got anything smaller?”

His stuff wasn’t all that good: Ray could tell that the kid wasn’t holding out two tens; he was holding a ten folded in half to _look_ like two tens. The kid would get his twenty back, start to hand over what looked like two tens, suddenly remember that what he _really_ needed was change for a ten, and add the other ten to the first, counting on the mark being so busy looking for change for a ten-dollar bill that he didn’t notice he’d gotten back only his original twenty dollars. With his original twenty and change for a ten, the kid would go away with ten more dollars than he’d started with.

“Yeah, kid,” Ray said, too tired to pursue it. He pulled out his badge and flipped the cover open. “Oops—wrong wallet.”

The kid was off in an instant, dodging flatbeds hauling the parade floats. Ray watched him and laughed. Fraser would love this story. He turned to go into the pizza shop—

A tinkle of breaking glass; and the sound of the alarm seemed to split the night. Ray whirled.

Down the block: jewelry store. “ _Police! Halt!_ ” He ran toward the shadowy figure fleeing down the dark street. Or maybe it was two figures. No, one. No street lights working—typical.

The figure didn’t halt; he hadn’t expected it to. He fumbled for his gun. Oh, please don’t have a gun; oh, _damn_ , don’t have a gun. “ _Police! Hold it!_ ”

The figure ducked into an alley. Behind him, Ray could hear the lovely sound of police sirens screeching, patrol cars trying to get down Stratmore. Help was on the way.

Ray galloped to the mouth of the alley, stopped and listened. Silence. Damn—silence except for that flatbed truck on Stratmore. He strained to hear over the motor. Gone? Or waiting to shoot him?

He took a quick look. The alley was too dark to see anything— He looked again. Somebody moving—

A muffled explosion made him jump—an explosion that seemed to go on and on and—

Ray caught his breath. Movie theater: cheap joint that backed onto the alley. Still showing _Independence Day_. Martians blowing up the White House ….

But there had been movement. He took a deep breath, raised the gun, and aimed into the alley. “ _Police! Don’t move!_ ”

For a second nothing happened.

Then, a flash— _small caliber single shot about three feet up aim a little to the right so you maybe hit him in the shoulder_ —and he did what he’d been trained to do: he returned fire as he dodged back.

Soft thump; then silence.

Police sirens closer now, but he couldn’t wait for them; he needed to know what had happened; he needed to know if he’d hit the guy.

Ray aimed into the alley again. “Police! Drop your weapon!”

Nothing moved, but there was a dark shape on the ground.

He started one of those long walks, carefully placing each foot, hugging the side of the alley so he maybe didn’t make so distinct a target. Two steps in, he wished he hadn’t started, but by then he didn’t want to back out. The alley echoed with booms again: Martians nuking Los Angeles. Had they nuked Los Angeles after Washington, or was it the other way around? Was that shape moving? Did he see a gun?

Lights now: police car screeching up to park across the alley. In the wash of red and blue flashing lights, the still figure seemed to be twitching. Something dark was spreading from it, something that gleamed in the flashing lights—

Ray backed away, holding his shield so the officers could see it, keeping his eyes on the perp.

The clatter of cop shoes on pavement was music. Two cops—but he could hear more on the way.

“Vecchio. Twenty-seventh,” he said. “I was on the scene. Smashed window. One perp; had a gun; I think he’s down. One of you call it in; I need somebody to go around to the other end of the alley—close it off.”

They did what he told them without question: good cops. One stayed at his end while the other screeched off in the car.

“Let me borrow your flashlight,” Ray said.

He trained it on the perp, who still wasn’t moving. He was lying face down on the ground; Ray could see his hands, which were limp, like empty gloves. What Ray couldn’t see was the gun. He kept his eyes on the hands as he walked toward the figure, gun still drawn. The Martians were nuking Moscow or whatever.

Rustle farther down the alley; and suddenly Ray was sighting down the barrel of his gun at a wino stumbling toward him, looking over his shoulder and saying, “Hey! Hey!” in a tone like the wino had been personally insulted. Ray consciously relaxed his trigger finger. Damn. Just a wino, Vecchio; just a wino seeing Martians of his own.

He knelt near the body. Still no gun. _Damn_ , there was a lot of blood. Faint pulse, getting fainter, fainter— While he had his hand there, he felt the heartbeat stop. Oh, damn.

Ray holstered his weapon and turned the perp over on his back. Sheez, a bullet made a big hole coming out. Blood everywhere— He started CPR, even though he knew it wouldn’t be much use; do what he could. Young guy. Damn—Ray felt wrist-deep in blood. _Big_ hole. Big hole for the—

He started to get the sick feeling just as a couple more cop cars and some paramedics screeched up and took over. Big hole for the front, for the side that should have been toward Ray if the perp was firing at him. Law of bullets hitting the human body usually was: little hole going in; big hole going out. Big hole in the front meant—

Oh, god. He crouched on the other side of the alley, trying to keep his bloody hands away from his clothes, watching the paramedics do their thing, half-hearing the wino protesting indignantly that some people were just trying to get some _sleep_ , just trying to _sleep_ around here. Oh, god, big hole in the front meant little hole in the back. In the back. Ray had shot him in the back.

And there was just so much wrong with that scenario that Ray didn’t even want to think about it.

——

 _Think, Fraser_. Think of some reason, some angle, some explanation for why a perpetrator firing at an officer would have his back to the target. Turning to run in the split second before Ray fired? He’d seen Ray in action; no one could turn that far that quickly. Think, Fraser.

It was difficult. Ray, pale and shaky in the interrogation room, looking ghastly under the lights, telling his story for the fifth time. Blood on his cuffs, from performing CPR on the shot man. Ray looked exhausted. And Fraser could tell that he had begun to retreat inside himself, to erect those protective barriers of wariness and jokes.

 _Think, Fraser_. But, watching Ray through the two-way mirror, Fraser only wanted to gather him into his arms, to assure him that he would be safe.

“And you never got a good look at him,” said one of the Internal Affairs officers—Sullivan.

“No.”

“You just shot.”

That sparked anger. “He shot first! I saw a flash; I aimed; I fired. He shot first! I told you that!”

“You’ve told us a lot of things,” the other IA officer—Bailey—said. “You’ve told us about a smashed jewelry window from which nothing is missing. You’ve told us about a meeting allegedly set up by an informant who never showed up. You’ve told us about a shot from a gun which—well, Detective Vecchio, it seems to have vanished. Along with the bullet it allegedly fired. You’ve told us a lot of things, Detective Vecchio.”

“I think he did it!” There was a triumphant note in that normally calm voice.

Fraser glanced at the figure at his side. His dead father, for reasons known only to him, had chosen to appear in his cold-weather parka.

“Ray doesn’t deny shooting the man, Dad. However, it was in self defense.”

“I think he did it. I think he just shot him for no reason. He’s an American. They don’t need any reason; they just shoot each other.”

Fraser stifled a sigh. Had the man been this irritating in life, or did death simply bring out the worst in people?

The silence in the interrogation room lengthened. Fraser watched Ray’s hands ball into fists. _Just sit still, Ray_ , he thought. He looked at Leftenant Welsh, calmly observing both the questioners and the questioned from a corner behind Ray.

“You know, Son, I’ve never approved of this—this relationship you have with that police officer.”

“Oh, you’ve made that abundantly clear, Dad.” Abundantly.

Ray sat for a moment, staring at the IA men. _Hold on, Ray_ , Fraser thought. _Just take a deep breath and_ —

“I got the call about four-thirty. Rache, a friend of Alessandra Willson. Said Aless wanted to meet with me and give me some information—” The words were delivered in a monotone.

“Son, you do know this relationship could have a devastating effect on your career.”

 _Oh, why talk about this now?_ Fraser looked at his father. “Any more devastating than—”

“Oh, _that_. That’ll blow over; if there’s anything I’ve learned in fifty-some years, it’s that eventually people will forget anything. Except—except something like the relationship you have with that Yank.”

“Ray.”

“What?”

“His name is Ray.”

“Is he worth all this?” Fraser’s father indicated the station house, the city. “Is he worth staying here, in this—” His father struggled for words, found none. “Is he worth jeopardizing your career?”

“Yes, Dad.” Ray was worth the stresses of staying in Chicago; he made staying in Chicago bearable. Ray was worth what was left of Fraser’s career, though Fraser had to admit there wasn’t much career left to jeopardize.

“I just don’t want you to wake up one day and wish you’d done things differently, Son.”

“I won’t, Dad.”

“Well, Detective Vecchio,” said Sullivan, “at least you’re consistent.”

“It’s the truth!”

“Gentlemen, I don’t think we’re going to get any further tonight,” Leftenant Welsh said. “We’re all exhausted; in the morning we’ll have more information to go on. Meanwhile, Detective Vecchio has given up his weapon for testing and will be assigned to desk duties.”

Fraser could breathe again. Take Ray home, hear his story again, comfort him, do what he could.

“Detective Vecchio, if there’s anything else you’d like to tell us, we’d be glad to hear it in the morning,” said Bailey.

Ray was silent while they left.

“Detective, go home and get some sleep,” said Leftenant Welsh.

“Yes, sir.”

“You haven’t seen your grandmother, have you?” asked Fraser’s father.

“No.”

“Strange.” He glanced around the dark room. “I could swear I feel her—stalking me.”

“Hey, Fraze,” Ray said when he saw Fraser. “You heard everything?”

“Yes, Ray. Would you give me a lift home?”

Ray looked wryly at him for a minute. “Sure.”

The silence in the Buick on the way home wasn’t a comfortable one. Even Diefenbaker seemed to notice it, nuzzling Ray as he pulled the automobile up to the curb.

“Quit kissin’ me, Dief,” Ray said, absently ruffling the wolf’s fur.

Home, where Ray was safe. Diefenbaker whuffed in surprise at some unexpected scent or sound, then trotted through the entire apartment, ruff stiff.

“We got mice, Fraser?” Ray said.

“Not to my knowledge. Wolves are—ah—surprisingly good mousers.” Get the bloodstained jacket and shirt off Ray, examine his hands closely, front and back. Of course it hadn’t occured to Ray to think that the shot man may have had a blood disease, before he’d administered cardio-pulmonary resuscitation—

“I’m okay, Fraser.”

“Of course, Ray.”

“I didn’t really get all that much blood on me.”

“Of course not, Ray.” Those hands could use another scrubbing, though.

Fraser got out a warm shirt for Ray to wear after he’d scrubbed himself. Now, get some food into him.

“He shot at me, Fraser. He shot right at me. I saw the flash.” Ray was sitting at the table, staring at the red roses Fraser had bought. “He had a gun, and he shot it at me. He had to have a gun: I saw a gun, Fraser, I really saw a gun.”

Fraser froze in the act of scrambling three eggs. _I saw a gun_ — Victoria Metcalfe, reaching for Fraser—and Ray had seen a gun in her hand, where there wasn’t one, and had shot another man in the back— _You’re being melodramatic, Fraser; why think of that now? Just listen to Ray_.

“I saw the flash, and I aimed at it. Well, just a little to the right, because I wanted to hit him in the shoulder. I really just wanted to wing him if I could, because I didn’t want to kill him; I just wanted to stop him.” Ray looked up as Fraser brought over the plate of scrambled eggs. His hazel eyes looked huge in his pale face. “How could I have shot him if I didn’t have the flash to aim at?”

“That’s an excellent question, Ray.” Fraser sat to watch Ray eat.

“Yeah—well, think it’ll occur to those bozos in IA? Think they’ll think of it? That alley was _dark_ , Fraser: _dark_. Think it’ll occur to them I had to have something to aim at?”

“Of course it will, Ray.”

“No, it won’t. They’ll just—they just don’t get it, what it’s like out there in real life. They just—” He bent his head to shovel scrambled eggs into his mouth.

 _Think, Fraser_.

Diefenbaker nosed his way into the dining area.

“Hey, Dief, get the mouse yet?” Ray asked, but the wolf was too busy to listen.

Ray finished the eggs. Fraser slid the mug of hot tea forward.

“Do I hafta?” said Ray.

Fraser let his gaze answer for him, and Ray sighed noisily and picked up the mug. Fraser didn’t blame him: the tea wasn’t much to his taste, either. But it was a special, soothing blend that calmed shattered nerves; Eric had sent it after his sojourn in nerve-jangling Chicago.

“Where’s the gun, Fraser? What happened to the gun? There was a gun, Fraser. Where is it?”

Get him to bed. “We’ll find it,” said Fraser.

“It hasta be somewhere,” Ray was still murmuring as they lay in bed. The back of his neck was hard as rock under Fraser’s massaging fingers.

“Shhh! We’ll find it. We’ll find the truth.”

“I know. You always find out everything. You won’t let me down.”

Silence for a moment.

“This feels good.”

“Shh! Relax.”

Ray’s arms tightened around Fraser. “I’m glad you’re here, Fraser. I’m glad it’s you.”

Something inside Fraser was glowing like the sun through a fog. He put his mouth close to Ray’s ear and whispered, “So am I, Ray.”

His only answer was quiet breathing.

——

 _Breathe, Vecchio. Just—just breathe, Vecchio_. It was a bad sign that he had to keep reminding himself to do that, but it was starting to get to him—all those questions and all those suspicious looks. Being on desk wasn’t helping, though it was better than being on suspension. How had Welsh kept him off suspension? At least this way Ray could catch up on his paperwork. By the time this was over, he’d be the most caught-up cop in the precinct.

Willson. Brendan Willson—that was the guy he’d shot. Brendan Willson, age 32, small-time gun dealer, small-time thief, small-time a lot of things. Like his cousin, Alessandra, who’d never showed for the meeting. _Geez, Aless, did you set me up?_ Which didn’t really make sense, since after all Ray wasn’t dead; Brendan was, because Ray had killed him. Would Aless set up her own cousin? Something about that didn’t click with Ray, but in that case it meant she’d set up Ray instead, which didn’t really make sense, since Ray wasn’t dead—

IA kept popping up, always with real cheery news: no powder burns on Willson’s hands; no gun in the alley; no shell casing; and where did Detective Vecchio think that spent bullet from Willson’s gun was? Detective Vecchio couldn’t imagine, which wasn’t the right answer because it wasn’t a riddle because IA couldn’t find a spent bullet anywhere. Anywhere at all, Detective Vecchio; wasn’t that strange?

Thank god the attorney from the Police Protective League stepped in then, because some stuff wanted to come out of Detective Vecchio’s mouth that wouldn’t have helped him a bit with IA.

It was weird in the squad room, how many people kept coming by to shoot the breeze. Cops gathering around their own, protecting their own. Made him feel good. Of course, some were avoiding him, keeping away from the taint of a maybe-bad cop. Weird to see who was who. Dewey was a shoot-the-breezer, though that breeze had a way of getting real chilly real fast; Laruski, who usually said hello every morning, was an avoider. Daniella Brown brought him a couple donuts.

Even Frannie showed up, supposedly to get the story straight from the source, because Ma had found out something happened when IA had tried to get him at the house that morning, since that was still the home address the precinct had on him— Ray hustled her out of the squad room and out someplace privater for coffee.

“What did she tell them?” he asked.

“ _You_ know Ma when she gets her back up: _clams_ talk more than she does. She didn’t tell them anything.”

He grinned. Ma, mad at Ray but still protecting him—or protecting her family from public disgrace. Either way, it helped.

“How is she?”

“She’s in her pissed-off-at-the-world stage.”

Ray grunted. That could last an hour or that could last a decade. He was betting on the latter.

“Though now she’s mostly pissed off at me,” Frannie went on. “ ‘Cause now I know about you and Fraser, and she can’t martyr herself by keeping it from everybody.”

Ray snorted a laugh. Vintage Ma! “So, how you getting along?” he asked. “You got enough money?”

“Oh, yeah,” she said. “You know, you don’t have to keep leaving us money like that.”

“Like what?”

“You know—you don’t have to leave money in the mail slot. We’re fine.”

 _Money in the_ — “What money in the mail slot?”

Frannie blinked at him. “The money. The money you left in the envelope.”

“I didn’t—Frannie, I got a key. If I was gonna leave money, I sure wouldn’t have to put it through the mail—”

The thought seemed to strike them both at the same moment: “Fraser.”

Ray felt a warm glow inside him. That big lug. He grinned. He’d have to say “thank you” to Fraser in an extra-nice way.

“Hey, Frannie—Tony get a job?” he asked as she was getting ready to leave.

Her mouth dropped open. “ _Tony?_ ” Her tone answered him.

Hmm. Those cash deposits nagged at him. Check into it— Not that he had time that day. He filed it away for later.

Right now, he had enough to do, just going through all they’d pulled from Jeremy Seggebruch’s apartment. It turned out that the reason the computer wasn’t working right was because somebody had reformatted it and wiped out all the stuff that was on the hard drive. Ergo, what was on the hard drive must have been important to somebody—important enough, maybe, to get Seggebruch killed. And maybe Seggebruch had copied it onto a disk somewhere in all those boxes of—

“You gotta be kidding me,” Elaine Besbriss said when she heard what Ray had in mind. “There’s gotta be a million disks in there.”

“Not quite.”

So, really, it wasn’t all that bad being kept to his desk right now, since probably he would’ve been just sitting here anyway with Elaine, looking at file after file on disk after disk. Really. It wasn’t all that bad.

As long as he kept himself from thinking about IA and what they were probably cooking up to go after him with right that very minute.

——

The minute Fraser took the forms into Inspector Thatcher’s office to be signed, he knew he should have sent Turnbull instead. Something about the way her face changed when she caught sight of him: shifted from distance to cool wariness mixed with anticipation. _The look_ , he thought uncomfortably, _of a woman still—interested_.

He had tried to make his retreat from their deepening relationship as gently as possible, but to his panic she had—well, she hadn’t retreated to quite the same extent. At first she had pursued, evidently puzzled when he persisted in politely misunderstanding her actions; then she’d become—well, petulant was perhaps too strong, but it was accurate. Now she took refuge behind the armor of her title, sometimes emerging for some quick sniping; she often seemed angry.

Fraser felt vaguely guilty now as he looked down at the part in her dark hair while she signed the forms. He was happy, and he felt she was not; and he couldn’t explain it to her. She was beautiful and intelligent—and Canadian—but he was no longer hers; and he couldn’t explain it to her. She deserved better.

He presented a polite blankness to her polite smile as she handed back the forms and carefully didn’t notice her appreciative glance at him. It was a relief to be out of her office.

Their courtship had been pleasant, once it had been tacitly acknowledged; but there’d always been something there that had made him uncomfortable, that had kept him distant from her. She’d kept dodging behind her position as his superior, fending him off with protocol, shutting him out in painful ways. Now he had Ray; and he couldn’t explain it to her. Frankly, it was a relief to have Ray, whose love was less complicated. Thatcher had always seemed, like Churchill’s Russia, a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma.

Fraser’s heart sank when he saw who was waiting outside his own office. Constable Renfield Turnbull, a riddle tangled up in itself and probably tripping over its own bootlaces. And the riddle was this: however had he become a member of the RCMP? Whoever had thought it prudent to actually give him a firearm? How was it Turnbull hadn’t yet accidentally shot himself?

Oh, there was that expression again: the one that made him look so much like a puzzled Labrador retriever puppy that Fraser wanted to give him a dog biscuit—

“Yes, Constable.”

“Are you—are you _in_ , Constable Fraser?”

Fraser took a deep breath. “Yes, Constable.”

“So, you’re actually _in_ for someone who wants to talk to you.”

“Yes, Constable.”

“Because I thought that if you were to say that you were _out_ , I could explain that to your visitor.”

“But, I would have to be— _here_ in order to say that I wasn’t. And, since I _am_ , well, then ….”

“Ah. Understood.” Turnbull turned, started out of the suite of offices, and turned again. “Shall I—ah—shall I show up the visitor in question?”

 _Count to ten_. “Yes, please, Constable. By all means.”

And so Francesca Vecchio was shown into his office by Turnbull, who seemed in danger of falling onto his face because he was—well, walking sideways, facing her, eyes riveted to her face. She in turn seemed equally—riveted.

“—And, so, Constable, how does Mrs. Turnbull get your uniform to look so—pressed?” Francesca smiled at her companion, looking through eyelashes so long Fraser suspected they were hers only because she’d purchased them. _Oh, that was such a transparent line_ —

“Oh, my mother doesn’t—”

Fraser’s heart sank as Francesca smiled and became even more demure than before. _Oh, Turnbull_. Oh, dear.

“Francesca!” Fraser’s greeting was perhaps a bit effusive.

“Oh, hi, Benny.” Francesca put her hand on Turnbull’s arm, gave him a melting smile. “I want to thank you so much, Constable.”

“Oh!—er—you’re welcome, Miss Vecchio.”

“Francesca.”

“Miss Francesca. I’m sorry; American names are so—”

“No, it’s Francesca Vecchio. _Miss_ Francesca Vecchio. But _you_ can call me Francesca—Constable ….”

“Turnbull. Constable Turnbull.”

Pause, while the smile froze on Francesca’s face.

“Ah—you may go, Constable,” Fraser said.

Turnbull nodded and walked backward out of the office, managing not to dodge the wall on his way to the stairs and then managing not to— Fraser winced at the thud.

“I’m fine! Just fine!” Turnbull sounded breathless.

Oh, dear.

“I just wanted to—” Francesca leaned through the office door, listening hard for a minute. Fraser leaned with her. There was a satisfactory thumping of two very large RCMP-issue boots on their way safely down the stairs, and Francesca visibly relaxed.

“Is he _going_ with anybody?” she asked, settling in the chair Fraser offered her.

“Turnbull?”

“Yeah. Is he _going_ with anybody? What _is_ his first name?”

“Er—Renfield.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s—it’s Renfield.”

“ _Ren_ field?” She sat back and seemed to be savoring the word. “Renfield. Renfield Turnbull.” She smiled. “Benton; Renfield—don’t Canadians give their children first-name kinds of first names?”

“Ah—”

“Renfield. I like it!”

“Is that why you—”

Francesca suddenly seemed to hear him. “Oh!” she said. “No! No—I—I came to find how—how Ray’s doing.” She seemed uncomfortable.

Fraser found himself blushing and wished he could stop: the reason the Vecchio family didn’t already know how Ray was doing was—well, was _him_.

“Er—ah—as well as can be expected. The police department is, of course, very concerned about the incident.”

“You’re investigating, right?”

“Well—” Well, he and Ray had visited the site last night, after work, where Ray had walked him through the events of the shooting, but Fraser wouldn’t call what he was doing _investigating_ , exactly.

“Because if you aren’t—well—well, things just seem to go better when you do, if you know what I mean.”

That was very flattering. “Well—ah—”

“Because, I mean, I know Ray would feel better, and I know _I_ would feel better. And I’m pretty sure Ma would feel better, even though she’d never say so.”

“Well, I can’t participate in any _official_ —”

“After all, Fraser, you owe it to him. He’s your—” Under her makeup, her face was reddening in a very attractive way. She was almost whispering. “Well, if you really— _love_ him—you—well, I think you’d kind of want to—well, help.”

The warmth had returned to his cheeks; he felt as breathless as she looked. “I—you’re right, Francesca. I do. Actually, I had planned to— I’ll—I’ll do what I can.”

“Good!” She visibly relaxed and smiled at him. “Good! Oh, I feel better. I feel a lot better now.”

When Francesca rose to her feet, Fraser also felt a lot better: loving Ray was wonderful; _discussing_ loving Ray with Ray’s sister was—nightmarish.

Fraser escorted her to the stairs. “Did you say Renfield isn’t _going_ with anybody?” she murmured.

That Turnbull charged up the stairs at that very moment was a blessing; Fraser handed Francesca over to him with relief.

“Oh!” Francesca said to Fraser, as she and Turnbull started down. “You don’t have to keep leaving money at the house; we’re doing just fine. Is Renfield really your first name?” She fluttered her eyelashes at her escort. “I like it! Do people call you ‘Renny’ for short?”

Fraser fled before he had to hear the answer. Not until he was back in his office did it register what she had said first. What money? Fraser hadn’t left any money.

——

Money. It was all coming down to money. Money in Willson’s wallet—a _lot_ of money—and all from the robbery Huey and Dewey were working, the strip mall job over the Columbus Day weekend.

And also one of those ATM receipts for a cash deposit—$500.

Into a real familiar account.

The Vecchio family account.

Ray tried not to look as sick as he felt as he stared at the receipt in its evidence bag. Those cash deposits—

“Is there something you’d like to tell us, Detective Vecchio?” Sullivan asked.

Ray’s head was shaking “no” even before his brain kicked in. No. Nothing that would help him.

“May I see that?” The attorney from the Police Protective League picked up the receipt. “Has this been fingerprinted?”

“Ah—” Sullivan and Bailey looked nonplussed.

“Gentlemen, _anyone_ can pick up a receipt off the ground. And this one—” The attorney studied it, then shook his head in disgust. “This is one of those receipts with the PIN number information printed right on it. Mr. Willson may have found it and kept it, intending to use the information to steal from the account later. After all, he allegedly _did_ rob banks.”

“Kind of coincidental that he happened upon a receipt for an account belonging to the man who later shot him,” said Bailey.

“Coincidence is just that, gentlemen: coincidence. It’s not proof.”

 _Yeah, but it soon would be_ , Ray thought as he walked back to his desk. Welsh was getting that “turn-in-your-badge” look. Ray’s gun was still confiscated. By rights, Ray should have been suspended; he had Welsh to thank that he wasn’t. But, damn, his life was starting to go right down the tubes.

“Welsh wants to see you,” Elaine said.

Ray frowned. Usually Welsh just bellowed. Oh, god, was this it?

It wasn’t. For in Welsh’s office was a familiar brown uniform encasing a very familiar figure—

“Vecchio,” said Welsh. “Our cousins to the north have become interested in our Internal Affairs procedures and have requested that we—accomodate an observer. Do you have any objections?”

“ _No_ , sir! No objections, sir.” Could Welsh hear the glad hammering of his heart?

“Well, then, Constable Fraser, observe away.”

“Thank you, Leftenant.”

“Yeah, thanks, Lieutenant!” Ah, god, things were looking up.

“They got an ATM receipt that ties me in with Willson,” Ray said when he and Fraser got to his desk. “Cash deposit to the household account.”

“Is it one of your transactions?”

“No. And it’s not the only big cash desposit there’s been. Ma takes care of the account; I haven’t been seeing the bank statements.”

“Well, we need to look at them.”

“We can get the records. There’s more: Willson had a lot of cash on him from a bank robbery Huey and Dewey caught this week.”

“So the implication is that Mr. Willson was involved in the robbery and may have deposited cash from that crime into your household account, which would implicate you in the robbery. Did they find an automatic teller machine card?”

“No. Which means either A: he picked up the receipt off the ground after some lunkhead in my family made a deposit and threw it away, which seems unlikely given that in my family we’re happier withdrawing than we are depositing; or, B: he was using a phony card and somebody else has it.”

“We need to see the videotape of that particular transaction.”

“I’m betting IA has it.”

“Hmm.”

“And I’ll bet they’ll want to keep it to themselves.”

“Mm _hmm_.”

Pause.

“So, what do you think?”

“I’m—thinking, Ray.”

Ray watched him think. It was a process worth watching. “So, they’ve got a receipt from my account and no shell casing and no gun and no spent bullet and no Aless to back up why I was really there. And what do we have?”

“Well, Ray, we have your reputation as a fine police officer.”

Ray blinked at him. “So, they’ve got a receipt from my account and no shell casing and no gun and no spent bullet and no Aless to back up why I was really there. And we have ….”

“We have our wits, Ray.”

Ray blinked. “So, they’ve got a receipt from my account and no shell casing and no gun and no spent bullet and no Aless to back up why I was really there. And we—”

“And we have the truth, Ray: that you acted in self-defense. We have the truth: that you had no part in that robbery. Ray, we have the truth on our side.”

 _And the truth_ , Ray thought, _shall get you life_. But, looking in Fraser’s clear, honest eyes, he didn’t have the heart to say it.

But he kept thinking it the rest of that day, while he and Fraser searched the alley where he’d shot Willson, searched the street just at the alley’s mouth, searched across the street from the alley’s mouth. In the movie theater Ray could hear Martians nuking the world again, and he wished his own problems were as easy to solve as those people’s.

Up and down Stratmore; and then up and down the alley, retracing Willson’s steps, retracing Ray’s steps. As usual, Ray felt like a nitwit tagging along behind Fraser, who was memorizing everything on the sidewalk and going “Hmm” and “Mmm” and “Mmhmmm” and sometimes picking something up and examining it. Did Fraser know how irritating that was? Did he care?

Up and down the alley, Fraser duck-walking through most of it, picking up garbage and doing his “Hmmm”ing. So help him, if Fraser tasted any damn thing, Ray wasn’t kissing him on the mouth for a week.

“Someone’s been bedding down here,” said Fraser.

“There was a wino. Guy by the name of Weird Waldo.” Ray didn’t want to go where this was taking them: if even the other winos called him “Weird”, Waldo would be no prize as a witness.

“Someone’s been running through here.”

Oh, for— “Fraser, it’s an _alley_.”

“Yes, Ray. But most people using an alley walk down the center; our runner went along the side, disarranging the discarded papers and bottles. You can see from the pattern of fading on this hamburger wrapper—stop that, Diefenbaker!—that it hasn’t been lying long in this position.” Oh, Ray could? He’d take Fraser’s word for it. “And our runner got dirty: you can see here where grime has been rubbed off the wall. The trail appears to end—here.” He patted a firedoor and jumped at the rumble as about a million Martians blew up.

“Theater,” said Ray. “Somebody leaving the theater in a hurry.”

“Well, actually, someone leaving the theater would walk down the center of the alley.”

“Drunk. Stoned. Confused. Agoraphobic. Hugging the wall because he really likes walls.”

Fraser just looked at him.

A whole afternoon like this, with Ray trailing along while the Mountie found interesting gum wrappers and intriguing pizza boxes, and lectured on the personality of whomever had chewed on one of those little fancy toothpicks. Here was the Mountie in all his glory. It was something to see all Fraser had being used to champion Ray.

And awful damn sexy.

After supper they went back to the station and got a printout of Aless’s known aliases and addresses. It was quite a list. And they searched the computer for Rache; as Ray had suspected, she didn’t show up anywhere. But Brendan Willson did: petty stuff, nothing to do with banks.

“Hmmm,” Fraser said.

“What?” Ray asked.

“Oh, nothing. _Hmmm_.”

“What? What?”

“Well—it’s just that there’s a—well, a gap in his record in Illinois. A recent one. As if he’d been—”

“Incarcerated?”

“No, out of town.”

Hmmm.

At the back of his mind, some voice was telling him that there was something he should be wondering about that programmer murder, but he really couldn’t think what it was; and he really didn’t have time for it right now. Think about his own problems. He shoved it away.

The thought returned as he and Fraser went to bed; but Frasr’s mouth looked especially tempting, and Ray really wanted to show him how glad he was that Fraser was helping him clear himself. So they necked a little, discussion of the case gradually becoming that silly love talk that always made Ray feel so good.

When Fraser fell asleep, the thought returned, full force, and Ray resigned himself to at least an hour of reviewing the details in his head. Gunshot wound to the heart; wiped computer; no fingerprints; no gun; no shell casing—no, that was the Willson case. Well, both cases. Ray closed his eyes, stiffened every muscle in his body, and then relaxed them, hoping to relax himself.

Even so, he couldn’t seem to get to sleep. Fraser’s even breathing beside him just emphasized that Ray was awake, watching the details of both cases tumble through his mind, jumbling together. Every one of Ray’s muscles seemed to have something to do that didn’t involve relaxing.

The crash in the street that jerked Fraser awake made Ray feel like he was jumping out of his skin. He scrambled out of bed.

He’d gotten into the habit of just going to bed naked, since he usually ended up that way sometime during the night. Didn’t have to worry about the cold: the bed was so narrow, Fraser was always right there to warm himself against.

When the noise started in the street, Ray grabbed an old t-shirt and pulled it on before going to the window to check things out. The shirt had shrunk some in the wash—shortened—and he tugged irritatedly at it as he went to the window, trying to tug it down to cover his ass.

Usual dark night on Fraser’s street: Riv gleaming under the street light, cars passing, pool hall lit up, Jesse and Jerome napping on the bus bench. Whatever the noise was, it had stopped; whoever had made it, they were gone.

Fraser had sat up in bed when Ray got up; now Ray turned just in time to see Fraser start, and jerk his eyes up to Ray’s face. The sky-blue eyes were wide with determined innocence.

What the— Ray looked at him a minute, looked down, saw nothing. Fraser had been looking right about— “Are you checking out my ass?” Ray asked him.

Fraser turned a shade of red just this side of apoplexy. “Er—” he said. His eyes strayed away from Ray, darted to the hem of Ray’s t-shirt, then slid resolutely up to Ray’s face. “Er—ah—that—the hem of that—shirt doesn’t—” He cleared his throat, flicked a glance down again; his hands folded themselves to cover his lap. “Actually—” His eyes followed Ray, who was coming around to his own side of the bed. “Actually, Ray, that—that shirt, coming down just halfway over—um—it rather accentuates— It calls attention to what I think of as one of your—your incredibly attractive features.” His expression was a mixture of embarrassment and lust.

Ray tried not to laugh as he stretched out on his side on the bed. As erotic sleepwear went, a ratty old t-shirt that left half his ass bare really shouldn’t rate; but, boy, he could almost hear Fraser’s heart racing, and heat was just rolling off him. Ray tried to tug the shirt down over his ass; felt his breath catch when he saw Fraser’s gaze follow his hands. There was a volcano of heat in that gaze.

He tugged languidly at the shirt, watching Fraser. Fraser was sitting really still, just looking, his gaze like a physical caress. When Ray gave up tugging and drifted his fingers over what the shirt didn’t cover, Fraser’s gasp seemed to suck all the air from the room. Ah, gee—ah, holy gee— Maybe it would make him feel better.

Ray reached—

Not too many minutes later the t-shirt was gone—landed on the other side of the room someplace—and Ray was on his other side, tight in the curve of Fraser’s body. Fraser’s cock filling him, thrusting, thrusting; teeth lightly gripping the back of Ray’s neck, holding him in place; one iron-hard arm around Ray’s waist, keeping him close; the other broad, warm hand expertly pumping Ray’s cock—oh, this definitely made him feel better. His mouth was babbling “oh” and “yes” and “Benny”; his hands were knotted in the sheet, gripping it tight, tighter—

 _Oh_ , this felt good. Benny’s hips and hand pumping faster now; Benny letting go of his neck to gasp, “ _Ray_ _Ray_ _Ray_ _Ray_ —” in time with his ever-faster thrusts, with that hoarseness in his voice that meant he was really starting to lose it— _damn_ , it was good.

It felt so good, that when all the pleasure in his body surged into his cock for a mind-blanking release, Ray stuffed the sheet into his mouth, so he wouldn’t wake half the neighborhood.

He still felt good the next morning when he woke tangled up with Fraser and the sheet; felt even better when he kissed the sleepy Mountie wide awake; felt positively great as he left with Fraser for breakfast and a day of cracking the case.

Good thing he felt so good. Halfway down the stairs he and Fraser met two little black kids playing.

“Good morning, Adam!” Fraser said. “Good morning, Talisha!”

“Hey, kids!” said Ray.

“Hi.” Adam was kind of shy.

But not Talisha. She looked straight at Ray as he passed her, and then said in a voice they could have heard in Indiana, “Is that your real nose?”

Yep—good thing he felt so great, because otherwise that kind of remark would make a guy rethink the innocence of childhood.

——

Ray’s innocence was the starting point. Ray had fired in self defense, returning fire; Fraser took a sudden deep breath, consciously erasing the memory of Ray firing at a nonexistant gun, hitting—

Ray had fired in self defense, aiming at the flash. This meant that there should have been gunpowder residue on Brendan Willson’s hands. But, while a trace metal test had established that Willson had held at least one gun in the twenty-four hours before his death, a chemical test had revealed no powder residue. And holding a gun was not the same as firing it, especially as the victim was an illegal arms dealer whose hotel room contained a Glock 17 semiautomatic pistol, a Ruger P94, two Colt .380s, and an Heckler & Koch 9mm USP semiautomatic—or, Ray had quipped, the armaments of the average American tourist.

Ray had fired in self defense. This meant that there should have been a spent shell. But there was none, on the ground, in the corners of the alley, or in the garbage bin near where the body had fallen. Even Diefenbaker’s keen nose had failed to find anything more interesting than a bag of stale doughnuts.

Ray had fired in self defense. This meant that there should have been a bullet from Brendan Willson’s gun. But there was none, not buried in a wall, nor in a building across the street, nor in the street itself. Nor, presumably, in any automobiles parked there that night; Fraser made a mental note to return to the neighborhood at night, to see what vehicles were likely to be there.

“So we got bupkis,” Ray said after several hours of searching.

“Not quite.”

They knew that there had been half a dozen cash deposits to the Vecchio household account over the last two months, at uneven intervals, totalling about $4000. Fraser’s heart smote him at the shock on Ray’s face when he saw the printout of the bank record.

They knew that Brendan Willson had indeed broken the jewelry store window—or at least been nearby when it was broken—from the glass residue on his clothes; though why was a puzzle:

“What the hell was he going for, is my question,” Ray said.

For, the shop owner, a genial little man who seemed to specialize in dusty mother’s rings and used-looking watches, explained that he removed most of the merchandise from the tiny show window every night, as a precaution against just such an event. And the mesh on the metal curtain he drew over the window would have been far too small for Willson to reach through.

They knew that someone had called the 27th Precinct from the pay telephone on the corner, which was suggestive; though the accumulation of fingerprints on the telephone would have told them nothing.

“Besides,” Ray said, “we know who called; we’ve just got no proof of why she did it. Or where she is.”

Where either of them were, more precisely: Rache, last name unknown, whose sketch was identified by the pizzeria owner who didn’t know her name but thought she was too young to dress that way, and by a convenience store clerk who didn’t know her last name but thought he’d like to date her; and Alessandra Willson, small-time fence, who was not at any of the fifteen addresses the Department had for her, under any of her nine known aliases.

Now Fraser’s mind flipped through the unexplored possibilities for an accurate address: voter registration, register of deeds, the electric company, collection agencies …. Perhaps she had a library card. How many branches were there in the metropolitan system?

“She was setting me up.” Ray’s voice was flat.

“Ray, you don’t know that. You’ve said yourself that she seems to like you—”

“She set me up, Fraser.”

“Ray, was it her voice on the telephone?”

“I’ve never heard her voice, Fraser.”

“But you said it was Rache who called.”

“Yeah, but—” Ray stared through the Buick’s windshield at the gathering dusk. “Did you ever think you’d get a case you couldn’t crack?”

“I’ve had several cases I couldn’t solve. This is not one of them.”

“It feels like—it feels like one of those dogfood bags where if you could just get hold of the right part of the string, it would unravel and the bag would open; but you just can’t seem to get it. We just can’t seem to get it, Fraser.”

“We will, Ray.”

Hidden in the dusk, on the quiet street, Fraser leaned over and kissed Ray lightly on the cheek. Ray’s smile brightened his hazel eyes. “You getting mushy on me, Fraser?”

“I’m just trying to remind you.”

“Oh, you reminded me last night. You reminded me real _good_ last night.”

Fraser felt his cheeks grow warm. The memory of Ray leaning out the window, the curve of his bare buttocks highlighted by the hem of—

Ray’s light kiss was a sweet warmth. “It’s Saturday night,” he said. “Date night in Chicago. We should have a date, Fraser. How about I take you out for Chinese, maybe a movie after? After that, who knows? Maybe if I’m real nice to you I’ll get lucky.”

Fraser chuckled. “Maybe we’ll both get lucky.”

——

 _Get there. Get there. Get there and_ — Dark night and the alley was dark and if Ray could only get there quick enough he could get the guy before he shot and then there wouldn’t be any flash to aim at and—

 _Get there. Get there_. But his feet weren’t moving right; they didn’t seem to want to get more than an inch off the ground, no matter how he strained his legs and when he got there the alley was dark and then he saw the flash and fired—

And it was Ma there, crumpled in the alley—

Ray jerked awake, bathed in sweat. Dream. It was just a dream, one of those nightmares the psychiatrists would really love—

Arms slid around him; he was gathered to a hard chest where a strong heart beat and a voice rumbled, “It was just a nightmare. It’s over now.”

“I killed Ma.”

The heartbeat sped up, evened out. “It was only a nightmare, Ray.”

“It was her in the alley. I killed her.”

Warm lips caressed his ear. “Shhh. It was only a nightmare.”

Yeah, it was only a nightmare. But, oh god, what a beaut. Still, better than that one with all the snow where he couldn’t find Fraser.

He held Fraser tight. “You think dreams are trying to tell us something?”

“Sometimes. Sometimes they’re telling us what we already know and refuse to recognize.”

“I shot her, Fraser.”

“Symbolic, Ray. You’re tense about what’s happening to you, and you’re tense about—about your relationship with your family. Your mind just put the two together.”

“Yeah.” But he could still see Ma lying in the alley, still see the flash.

Ray pulled away and sat up. The shooting, the dream—all of it was just spinning in his head, all mixed up together. Suddenly he was both exhausted and wide awake; and he knew he’d never get back to sleep.

“You know, Ray—” Fraser was watching him. “—I’d like to take a look at that alley in the dark. I’d like to know just what it must have looked like that night.”

Ray kissed him before they got out of bed and kissed him again as they got dressed. Trust the Mountie to know Ray needed to do something, to take some action to keep from going nuts. Canadians—you could always count on them.

So they stood in the alley at 4 a.m., looking at the garbage bin and the no street lights and the garbage. No Weird Waldo, either.

“So he was standing about— _here_ ,” Fraser said, moving to the dark patch on the pavement. It was brown in the light of Fraser’s flashlight; Ray was glad when Fraser turned it off. “And you were ….”

“Over here.” Ray moved into position.

“I can just see you outlined against that light-colored building across the street. Was that street light across the way out that night?”

“Yeah. But there were some cars on the road then, some trucks. Willson mighta seen me outlined against them.”

“Can you see me?”

“Just barely.” Like that night. Just like that night.

Fraser flickered the flashlight. “There. That’s the flash of his gun. Could you—”

“Do that again.” Something was wrong.

The light flickered.

“No, lower.” Yes, definitely wrong.

Fraser turned on the light. “Now?”

“No. Lower. And farther left.”

“Now?”

“No, left! Left!”

“Oh, _your_ left!”

“Yeah! Left!” Still wrong. “Lower.”

“Ray—”

“Yeah, right there.”

“Ray, are you sure this is the correct angle?”

“Yeah. Right there. The flash was just right there.”

“Ray, aim your gun.”

Aim his— “I don’t have a gun, Fraser!”

Fraser’s hand came into the light and became a gun, like the little kids made with their forefinger when they pretended to shoot. “Aim your gun.”

So, feeling silly, Ray clasped his hands and extended his forefingers in the two-handed stance he usually used. He sighted down the fingers.

“Look at your hands,” said Fraser.

About as high as his adam’s apple; usual. “So?”

“So, look at _my_ hand.”

He looked at the hand that was holding the light. Just out from Fraser’s right side. About three feet up from the ground.

“You’re standing in the dark, aiming at a man in the dark. Is this the angle you would use to try to shoot him?”

No. No, it wasn’t. Light began to dawn in Ray’s soul. He felt like he was getting a real chestful of air for the first time in a long time.

Willson hadn’t shot at him at all. It’d been somebody else. There’d been somebody else in that alley, shooting, and Willson had got in the way.

——

“Somebody else. Somebody else who took the gun and the shell casing. Oh, god, Fraser, I shot the wrong guy. But there was somebody else in that alley. I _did_ see two people running away from that jewelry store. I thought I saw two, but it didn’t make sense, so I decided it was one.”

“You _were_ set up.”

“Yeah, but—but they missed. And then Willson caught my bullet. Oh, Fraser.”

“Willson lured you there. He knew you were coming, and he broke the glass and then ran to get you to that alley.” But—

“Aless set me up.”

“We don’t know that.”

“She’s his cousin. She set me up.”

Something was still wrong. Fraser pushed away his plate. The diner was quiet this early in the morning—good for thinking.

“Ray, you’re setting someone up to be shot. You break the glass and then run and then duck into the alley. Now, you know there’s an assassin in that alley who’s going to shoot a man who’s not only carrying a gun, but who knows how to use it. Do you stand in _front_ of the assassin, in the man’s line of fire, or do you duck behind the steel trash bin in that alley?”

“Fraser, are you saying Willson was standing in _front_ of the shooter?”

“It’s the only logical scenario. The assassin was on his knees, aiming at you; you’d have noticed if someone in front of Willson was trying to get away. You’d have at least heard it. And, besides—” Fraser took a deep breath. This was a painful part of the explanation. “—Willson was shot in the _back_ , as he was turning—”

Ray caught what he was saying. “Turning to look back at somebody.”

“Someone doing something unexpected, or else he wouldn’t have turned to see what was going on.”

“Somebody shooting at the cop who’d been chasing him. Kneeling beside the bin, shooting at the cop.”

“Who shot back and hit Brendan Willson.”

“Because the cop aimed right of the flash—the cop’s right.”

“Just as the assassin knew he would.”

Ray’s face was relaxing for the first time since the shooting. “So they weren’t setting up just the cop.”

Fraser felt his own brow unfurrow. “They were also setting up Brendan Willson.”

“Which is a very interesting theory,” Leftenant Welsh told them the next morning. “But, gentlemen, IA requires more than just interesting theories. IA likes shell casings, carefully left where they were ejected. They like spent bullets, from which they can measure trajectories. What they do not like is theories based solely on the shooter’s memory of the events. And what they _especially_ do not like, Detective Vecchio—” His voice was growing harder. “—is police detectives who investigate their own shootings. I have worked diligently to keep you from being suspended. I would hate to have to ask for your shield, but I will do it if necessary. Is that clear?”

“I’m dead, Fraser.” Ray sat dejectedly at his desk, deforming a paperclip.

“Not yet, Ray.”

“No, Fraser, it’s just a matter of time.”

“Well, Ray, the Inuit have a—”

Ray pointed the paperclip at him. “Fraser, if you give me some Inuit saying about how it ain’t over ’till the fat walrus sings, I swear I’m—”

The pile of paper that dropped on the desk between them was a welcome distraction. “Printout on Seggebruch,” said Elaine. “And—” She glanced at Leftenant Welsh’s office and lowered her voice. “—what you asked for,” she said to Fraser, handing him a folder.

“Thank you kindly, Elaine,” he said.

Ray’s eyes were wide. “What you—”

“Federal records. On—ah—” By telling Ray, would Fraser be violating the leftenant’s unspoken command?

“On Willson.”

“Ah—that would be correct.”

“Let me see.”

Fraser shook his head firmly.

“Fraser, let me see!”

“Ray, that would be violating the leftenant’s order.”

“Fraser, it’s me. It’s my life we’re talking about here.”

“Ray—”

“Is a Canadian actually supposed to have an American’s personal FBI file?”

Now, that would come under the— No, it would be covered by Section IX, paragraph 16 of the— Except at the district level, when it would be— But not in Kansas.

“Fine!” said Ray. “Keep it to yourself! I got a printout of my own to look at.”

Ah. Good. Fraser hastily skimmed the information. Brendan Willson, age 32, was either one of the worst or one of the unluckiest criminals Fraser had ever seen. Focus: that was what Mr. Willson had lacked. Trafficking in stolen goods, smash and grab, grand theft auto (twice), trafficking in illegal arms, driving under the influence of alcohol, breaking and entering, assault, violating parole—the man was a walking model of recidivism.

“ _Hmmm_ ,” said Ray.

Fraser looked at him expectantly. Ray glanced at him pointedly, then turned the page and looked back down at his printout. Ah—so they were going to play _that_ game. Well, Fraser wasn’t really interested, anyway.

Brendan Willson’s Social Security Number began with the numbers 361. Fraser closed his eyes and called up a mental picture of the chart he had studied …. Issued in Illinois. Characteristically, he was not on file with the American Internal Revenue Service. Add tax fraud to his crimes.

“Mm _hmm_ ,” said Ray.

Fraser did not take the bait. He ran his eye down Willson’s arrest records. The crimes had taken place in a variety of states: Illinois, Louisiana, Arkansas, Texas— He looked at the dates of those crimes, searching for something more recent than three months ago, when Willson had been bailed out on a burglary charge in Texas and dropped out of sight—

“Oh, my god.” Ray’s voice wasn’t teasing this time.

Fraser looked up, but Ray was staring, puzzled, into space.

“I didn’t think of that,” he murmured.

“Of what?”

“Of— This guy—this Seggebruch—he was arrested for faking ATM cards. I didn’t even think about who could fake an ATM card. He could have; probably a bunch of computer geeks could. You think that’s how somebody deposited all that money to my account? Fake ATM card made by some computer geek?”

“Where’s Mr. Seggebruch from?”

Ray flipped through the file. “Texas. Austin.”

A cold knife seemed to pierce Fraser’s vitals. “Mr. Willson is also from Texas. University of Texas. In Austin.”

“It’s a big city. You think they knew each other?”

“The coincidence seems—suggestive.” _I figured I’d go to Dallas, or maybe Austin—someplace warm_ , she had said, her lovely face glowing. _Get a fresh start_. He shut down the memory.

“Probably just that, though: coincidence. Like I said, big city. And these two don’t strike me as the type that would— Oh, god, I’m dead.”

Fraser turned to see State’s Attorney Louise St. Laurent marching into Leftenant Welsh’s office, casting a cool glance at Ray. Sullivan was with her.

“Oh, god, this is it, Fraser. They’re gonna ask for my badge. Ah, geez, Fraser, I’m dead.”

——

He was dead. It was just going to happen a day later than Ray had thought. He had known yesterday when he’d seen Louise going into Welsh’s office, but today’s session with IA just confirmed it. Dead and about to lose his shield. So dead he couldn’t really feel anything as he watched the videotape IA played.

There was Brendan Willson, a little fuzzy in the uncertain focus of the ATM camera, doing at little banking at the machine at 20th and West Octavia at 9:02 P.M. on October 15—the exact place and time and date on the receipt they’d found in his wallet. Brendan Willson, making a little deposit into the Vecchio account.

And more. Shot of Brendan Willson doing a little banking at 4:15 P.M. on October 4, at a machine across from the station house. And Willson using a machine on September 25. And September 18. And August 29. And—

Ray closed his eyes. Brendan Willson making cash deposits into the Vecchio account. In a weird way, Ray felt—violated. That was his family’s money, and a slimeball had had access to it. Stupid to feel that way, but—

“Now, there’s something very interesting in the timing here, Detective,” said Bailey. He slid a piece of paper across the table to Ray. “If you look right— _here_ , I think you’ll notice something very—interesting.”

It was a list of the dates of deposit; and it was a list of the dates of— Ray looked closer and felt his heart stop. It was a list of the dates he’d brought Alessandra Willson in on a charge or for questioning or because she’d promised him some information.

And for the last two months there’d been a deposit just after every visit.

“I’m not sure what you’re getting at,” he said.

“Did Mr. Willson do all your banking?” Louise asked.

“I didn’t even _know_ Willson before the sixteenth.”

“But you do know—Alessandra.” She dropped a mug shot on the table: Aless in her cheerleader-hooker outfit.

“Yes. She’s an informant.”

“Only an informant, Detective?”

“And a pickpocket and a fence.”

“But nothing else.” Sullivan, looking bored.

“No.”

“Did you know she was Willson’s cousin?” Bailey asked.

“I didn’t know Brendan Willson. I didn’t trace her family tree.”

“Why did Mr. Willson deposit so much money into your account?”

“I don’t know.”

“How did he get your automatic teller machine card?”

“He didn’t have my card. He must of had a fake.”

“Why didn’t you report this activity to the bank?” Sullivan.

“I didn’t know about it.”

“Didn’t know about deposits to your own account.”

“My mother takes care of that account.”

“But your name is on it.”

“I’m head of the house.”

“But your mother takes care of the account.”

“We’re Italian.”

Sullivan, Bailey, and Louise St. Laurent just stared at him; Guerra, his attorney, quirked his mouth in a smile.

“Why would Mr. Willson make these deposits into your account?” asked Louise.

And it just kept going around and around like that, over and over, until they ended by asking for his shield; and the whole time Ray was asking these same questions in his own mind and getting no answers.

He never seemed to have answers for IA—at least, not the kind that was any help. Not this time, not the last time, when they were asking about Victoria Metcalfe setting up the Mountie so he had no choice but to go with her. Money. It always seemed to come down to money and to disgrace and to somebody betraying somebody else by setting them up; and Ray never seemed to have the answers that would make everything all right.

He still had no answers the next day, after an evening spent looking for Aless and Rache, and a night spent listening to Fraser not sleeping either. No answers during a day of puttering around the apartment and walking through half of Chicago with Dief, who had opted to stay with Ray instead of going to the station house with Fraser: “He’s protecting you, Ray,” Fraser had said that morning; “He knows I’m having pizza for lunch,” said Ray. And no answers from going around to Aless’s addresses again even though he wasn’t supposed to.

Ray stopped for coffee and donuts at a little place on Racine: bad coffee and good donuts, though he ended up giving them to Dief. The coffee was just something hot to drink while he thought.

Somebody hated him, but not enough to kill him. Or maybe too much to kill him: the kind of cold hate that wanted him alive to suffer. What would happen to Ray if he wasn’t cleared? A lot. He’d lose his job. And he’d be tried for murder, at the very least. Probably tack on some connection with Willson—bribery or something. Disgrace; and prison. Prison, knowing he hadn’t done anything, knowing he’d been set up. Away from his family, away from Fraser—

Oh, god, who hated him that much? Well, a lot of people. But who hated him this much and would come up with something this complicated? Who hated him who even _could_ come up with something this complicated? Only one person he could think of.

“If you hurt him, I’ll kill you”—just tossed off to let her know he didn’t really trust her. And that look she’d given him: fire and hate. Now, _she_ could come up with something like this.

Victoria Metcalfe. Fraser’s long-lost love, the girl he’d had to arrest. Intense days in a snowstorm that had seared Fraser’s soul for life; and then he’d taken her in like a good little Mountie and tried to live with the choice he’d made to follow duty instead of his heart. When she’d come to Chicago: Romeo and Juliet. Days of bliss, during which Fraser had gotten so swept up he’d completely forgotten Ray. Ray tried not to think about how much that had hurt, that Fraser had forgotten the special guys’ night Ray had planned ….

Days of bliss, during which Victoria had gotten her hook well into Fraser and set in motion his eventual fall. Then murder and betrayal and Fraser being arrested; and IA grilling Ray as Fraser’s possible accomplice; and Fraser dancing to Victoria’s tune, obeying her in a gut-churning effort to prove he wouldn’t betray her again and to keep Ray out of jail. And then the sickening scene at Union Station, where Fraser’s plan to catch her changed in a horrifying instant to Fraser letting her go and even trying to go with her even though it meant Ray would lose the house he’d put up as bail, to Fraser running after the train and into the path of Ray’s bullet.

Not for the first time, Ray felt the agony of that horrible two weeks wash through him. What kind of love would make a man who worshipped honor betray his friend? What kind of passion would make a man so devoted to duty let a murderer go free? _Was_ it love? Did Fraser still feel that way about her? Would he do the same kind of thing for Ray?

 _Stop it, Vecchio. It isn’t her_. Victoria was far, far away, since she knew what was good for her. Besides, Fraser was over her; he had Ray now. The Victoria part of his life was over. No, she was far, far away, and she wouldn’t be stupid enough to come back to Chicago. No, it was somebody else.

He bought Dief another donut and took them both home.

Just about when Fraser was due home, Ray’s little flip-phone rang. He made the mistake of answering it. “Vecchio.”

The words coming from the other end were sharp as knives. “Ma?” said Ray.

The voice didn’t acknowledge that he’d said anything; it just went on with what it had to say, laying his heart open and flaying his soul.

“Ma, I—”

The voice didn’t listen; it hissed a final sentence in Italian, and the line went dead.

“Ray?” It was Fraser.

Ray swallowed bile and closed the phone before tossing it onto the table. “Ma,” he said. “I’ve just tripled the disgrace to my family—as if that was possible. IA searched the house. She’s been disgraced in front of the neighbors by her filthy, homosexual son who’s living like an animal with another guy and murdering people on the side. I’m paraphrasing.”

“Ray—”

“And now he’s involved his innocent family. His innocent, church-going, heterosexual family—”

“ _Ray_.”

He was done, anyway. “IA came in, searched the house, took that cash you left—”

“Ray, I didn’t leave any money.”

“ _Sure_ you did! Last week. That money you put through the mail slot.”

“Ray, I didn’t—leave—any money.”

Ray stared at him for a minute. Oh, god. “Oh, god, somebody—like those deposits. Cash. Like those deposits. You think Willson ….”

“I don’t know what to think.”

“But it’s like those deposits IA thinks Willson made for me. They think I—”

Fraser was holding him now, wrapping Ray in warmth. “Ray, it doesn’t do to get excited. There’s a perfectly logical explanation for all this, and we’ll find it.”

“Yeah. The logical explanation is that I’m being set up.”

“Yes, and we’ll find the perpetrator. Meanwhile, we have to keep our wits about us.”

Funny, but that calmed him. Something about Fraser coming right out and saying there was a set up made it easier to bear. Or maybe the feeling of those strong arms around him. Fraser would fix things; Fraser always fixed things.

Fraser was quiet at supper, but then Ray didn’t feel much like talking, either. When his little flip-phone rang again, his heart hammered, though he wasn’t sure whether it was with hope or with fear.

It was Welsh. He didn’t sound happy.

“IA wants to talk to me,” Ray told Fraser after Welsh had hung up. “Tomorrow. IA wants to talk to me tomorrow.” Oh, god, don’t let this be it— He thrust the thought away.

Fraser was clearing the table. “Perhaps there’s been a break in the case.”

“Maybe I’m what’s supposed to break.”

“In that case, they wouldn’t wait until tomorrow; they would ask to see you now.”

Oh, god, let that be right.

“Can you come with me tomorrow?”

“Of course, Ray! The only reason I went to the Consulate this afternoon is that there’s so much to do with the reception for the Mexican Ambassador on the thirty-first, especially with the Musical Ride coming through—”

“I can’t believe they’re coming back for more after what happened last time. Are Canadians natural gluttons for punishment, or something?”

“Now, Ray, I can’t imagine the Musical Ride would become involved in a nuclear incident twice in the same decade. Of course, there were those incidents involving grenades in 1907 and in 1909, but that was just freak timing—”

Twit the Mountie. Spend a cosy evening with him walking around the slum spots of Chicago, looking at addresses Rache’s school records had turned up. To bed early.

They just sat quietly in bed for a little while, not really ready for sleep, but getting there. Willson, shootings, money: everything was whirling around in Ray’s head, getting all mixed up in there. Somebody hated him enough to be doing all this. It all was coming down to money and betrayal and unending hate—

“I’m being set up, Fraser.”

“I know.”

“Doing a damn good job of it, too.”

“Yes.”

Okay, now for it. He drew breath. “Remind you of anybody you know?”

Fraser was still for a minute; then his head jerked around so he was looking at Ray. “It’s not—” He didn’t finish, just looked at Ray with wide eyes that were already starting to seem distant: that walled-in look Fraser had had when he and Ray had first met. Fraser in pain, retreating into himself. That distant look sliced into Ray like a razor-edged knife.

“It couldn’t be,” Fraser said.

“Her M.O.,” Ray said.

“It—she wouldn’t—how would she—”

“She’s done it before.”

“Where would she get the money?”

“There’s more than one bank to rob.”

“No.” Fraser’s voice was firm. “Perhaps Frank Zuko—”

“Maybe. But Zuko likes pain and blood and real fast endings. This is way too subtle for him.”

“You have—” Fraser’s voice was rough. “You have—other—enemies.”

Ray filled his lungs, emptied them. “Yeah, you’re right,” he said. “Probably somebody I don’t even remember. Lot of perps with a lot of time to plan out something like this.”

But something was in the room with them now, chilling the air. Something or—someone. When they smooched and slid down under the blanket, Fraser didn’t curl around him like usual; Ray didn’t snuggle up to him. Instead, they lay side by side, like two guys who only kind of liked each other, until they fell asleep.

Next morning, they woke wrapped around each other as usual. And they kissed, as usual.

But, getting dressed, Fraser seemed nervy; he didn’t seem to want to get too far from Ray, dressing right beside him, tugging Ray’s jacket straight, brushing off lint Ray couldn’t see, fussing over dust on Ray’s shoes—like Ray was going to disappear if Fraser wasn’t careful.

Or like Fraser was protecting him.

Ray’s heart felt soft as applesauce. He took Fraser’s face in his hands, smiled into his eyes, and leaned in to give Fraser a good, solid _damn_ -I-love-you! kiss that seemed to last about three weeks.

Fraser’s arms were stone walls protecting him. Eyes closed, Ray wrapped his arms around Fraser and rested his head on wool to breathe in the leather and wool and warm-skin fragrance of the Mountie. Every Mountie muscle seemed tense. Fraser held him tight, tighter—

“It’s gonna be okay, Fraser,” Ray murmured.

“I know.” The words came too quick.

“Really okay.”

“Of course, Ray.” But Fraser’s fingers seemed to clutch him.

And when they broke from the embrace to go have breakfast, Fraser’s face was soft with something that looked a little like fear. Ray watched him take a deep breath and slip on his upright-Mountie expression before they went through the door; but his eyes were apprehensive.

And it occured to Ray to wonder if Fraser was being protective of Ray—or of himself, clutching for support in the face of what he was afraid he might do if Victoria Metcalfe came back for another try.

He wondered it all the way down to the car and halfway to the diner.

——

Halfway into the second question, Fraser knew that Ray was going to be arrested before the session was over. Halfway into the third question, he knew that Ray also knew it.

It was only logical. The money that had been left at the Vecchio home had come from a bank robbery reported October 15. A twenty-dollar bill Ray had spent also had come from that robbery. The deposits made into the Vecchio family account had coincided with other local robberies—though some of that might have been coincidental, since it seemed to Fraser that there was a bank robbery in the Chicago metropolitan area every other day.

Alessandra Willson’s involvement. The lack of evidence that Brendan Willson—or an accomplice—had shot first. The lack of a provable reason for Ray to have been at that address to be shot at.

Circumstantial. Everything the police seemed to have was circumstantial. But it fit together quite tidily to leave the impression of a police officer in league with a criminal, using Alessandra Willson as a go-between, and finally deciding to end the relationship with a well-placed bullet. And many a man was convicted on circumstantial evidence.

“Raymond Vecchio, I’m placing you under arrest for the murder of Brendan Willson—”

Standing to be handcuffed by Detective Huey, Ray looked at the glass behind which Fraser watched. Fraser knew that Ray could see only his own reflection in the mirror on that side, but it was uncanny how his eyes looked straight at Fraser, piercing Fraser to the heart. Fraser was only half conscious of his shoulders straightening and his heels meeting as he came to attention.

“He didn’t do it, Dad,” he murmured to the other Mountie, also standing at attention in the dark room.

“I know, Son.”

“I have to ….”

“Do what, Son?”

“I have to.”

But he could not say what.

He could only watch as a drugstore clerk identified Ray in a line-up—and tried to identify Fraser.

“You look familiar,” she said. Her eyes narrowed. “Milk Duds. You’re that guy stole Milk Duds when I was working in the grocery store.”

Oh, dear.

“And to think we didn’t deport him,” Leftenant Welsh said drily. “Could we get back to the gentleman who gave you the twenty?”

“Number four,” the clerk said. “He comes in a lot. Buys a lot of condoms.”

 _Oh, dear_. Fraser was glad the room was so dark: his face felt as if it were glowing.

And Fraser could only watch in stunned silence as Ray was denied bail.

“Not unusual,” Dewey said, sitting beside him. “Not fair, but not unusual.”

 _But he won’t be home tonight_ , Fraser thought. _He won’t be home_.

“You’ll crack it.” Fraser’s father sounded confident. “Of course, he won’t be grateful; his kind never is. But you’ll crack it.”

Fraser wished he felt as sure.

Ray’s face as he left the court room was blank, closed. Ray was hiding behind the protective barrier of resignation that Fraser had seen in the past. It hurt him now. Ray was supposed to feel safe; he wasn’t supposed to have to hide—

The resignation was still there when Fraser spoke to him at the jail.

“Nobody should wait up for me at home,” he said. “I may not be back there at all.”

“Where did that twenty-dollar bill come from?” Fraser asked. Focus on that.

“How do I know?”

“Think, Ray. Someone slipped it to you. Where did it come from?”

“How do _I_ —” His eyes went blank for a second. “Somebody on the corner—tried to con me …. Junkie. Junkie on the corner tried to con me with a real bad routine. He gave me a twenty; I gave him two tens. Fraser, do you think—” Hope brightened his face.

“I think I need to find that individual, Ray.”

It was the thought he held onto as he stormed through the rest of that day, demanding, making a fuss, taking no answer but “yes.”

“You really must insist,” Leftenant Welsh repeated, “ ‘ _emphatically_ ’?”

“I’m sorry, Leftenant; I seem to be very— _demanding_ —”

“Well, if you feel so strongly that you absolutely must insist, then who am I to stand in your way?”

“ ‘If I please’?” Elaine Besbriss mimicked him. “You’re getting as bossy as Vecchio.”

“I’m sorry—I—”

Her smile told him she was teasing. Really, though, he’d been so _rude_ ….

“Well, if you’re going to be that way about it, I may as well do it.”

“Thank you kindly, Elaine.”

“ _That’s_ more like it.”

The really alarming thing was that his rudeness seemed to get the job done just as well as his politeness ever did. Still, he was glad when he was done at the station house, and went out to ride rough-shod over the citizens of Chicago.

“If you wouldn’t mind, I would like to ask you some—”

“No woofs,” said the proprietor of the candy shop next to the jewelry store Brendan Willson had tried to break into.

“I beg your pardon?”

“No woofs.” She indicated Diefenbaker.

“Oh, _wolfs!_ Wolves. No _wolves_. I’m sorry, Diefenbaker, but—” He escorted him out. Now, then—

“You buy?”

“Er, no. I’m Constable Benton Fraser, of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police—though I’m not operating exactly in an _official_ capacity—and I was wondering if you’ve seen this man.”

She wasn’t looking at the sketch. “You buy?”

“Ah, no, I—”

She stared at him.

Fraser sighed. “I’ll take this chewing gum.”

“No.”

“Excuse me?”

She indicated the sketch. “Not see. No.”

“Ah. Thank you kindly, ma’am.”

It was like that all afternoon: Fraser demanded answers; Fraser made a fuss; and Fraser ended the day with no identification of the man and with very little money, but with pockets full of small items that Ray might find useful.

Or amusing. Fraser sat in a small restaurant in the half-light of evening and tried to cheer himself with a little plastic hen that opened her wings and laid a marble when he pressed on her back. Silly.

And so was he: somewhere in the back of his mind had lurked the thought that, if only he could find the man who had slipped Ray the money, the nightmare would be over. Ray would be free. And they would go home together and make love and maybe have pizza in bed again— And Fraser’s apartment would be overfull, and he wouldn’t be this reluctant to go home.

Silly. He picked up the toy, paid his bill, and left.

Elaine was leaving when Fraser found her. “Here’s the stuff,” she said.

“Thank you.”

He took the folders to Ray’s desk and spread them out. Around him, the station house went through its transition from day to night, quieting, darkening. He read through the reports on the Willson shooting three times, and each time he could find nothing that had not been thoroughly examined or explored. Nothing there.

Fraser read and reread the files on Alessandra Willson, noting addresses, aliases, associates, advocates. He and Ray had checked the addresses, tracked her aliases, and interviewed her associates. Nothing there. Tomorrow, Fraser would talk to the lawyers who had defended her. Perhaps something would turn up.

He spread out the sketch of the young man. A lost soul wandering in a city of millions, perhaps untraceable—

Fraser stood and turned out the desk lamp. _Don’t. It will be all right; just—don’t._

“You know, it’s no disgrace to give up,” his father said. “Sometimes you’ve just got to acknowledge when you’re licked.”

“I can’t give up,” Fraser told him.

“Just trying to be helpful.”

“I can’t give up. He’s too important.”

“Mmm. Well, keep it in mind.” He made no move to follow Fraser out of the squad room. “You know, that Turnbull isn’t half bad-looking,” he called after Fraser. “If you’re so partial to men. Canadian, too. Similar background is very important in a relationship.”

Fraser paused at the door. “Good night, Dad.”

“You should at least think about it.”

“Good night.”

“Good night, Son.”

At the door of the station house, Fraser squared his shoulders and took command of himself. Ray’s Buick Riviera gleamed in the glow of the street light. He could do this. He was a good driver; really, he had an excellent driving record. It was just this particular vechicle that erased his competence. Driving that mobile fortress on wheels was like driving the House of Commons, but he could do this. He was a Mountie.

And he did it. Diefenbaker insisted on walking, but Fraser was of sterner stuff that refused to acknowledge the honks from impatient drivers who didn’t care to follow him at 16 kilometers per hour, and that insisted on making the parking of this leviathan into a game he wouldn’t enjoy losing.

Fraser closed the Buick’s door with a sense of satisfaction. He had done it. Diefenbaker sat on the sidewalk, ostentatiously bored. “Well, _you_ drive next time,” Fraser said to him as he went into the building.

His apartment seemed different. Fraser stood at the door and looked around, trying to ignore a twinge of disappointment. Silly—Ray wasn’t here. He was—he wasn’t here. Fraser took a deep breath.

Diefenbaker wuffed, a surprised sound, and stalked past him, ruff fur standing on end. What was—

He smelled it before he saw it. Sweet, but his stomach knotted. Fraser walked toward it, ignoring Diefenbaker’s half-growled barks of frustration and alarm. Fraser’s brain didn’t seem to be working correctly; it wasn’t processing thoughts. He watched his hand reach out—

For the rose lying on the bed. The single red rose that Ray couldn’t possibly have left, scenting the apartment with a fragrance that suddenly reminded Fraser of the sickly sweetness of death.

——

Smell of it was the most depressing thing: that combination of urine and disinfectant and poorly washed convict that was unique. _Jail_ _. Jail again. Good old Cook County lockup_. Ray sat on the edge of his cot and tried to take some deep breaths without actually breathing in jail air. He didn’t want it inside him, becoming part of him.

He looked down the rows of mostly empty cots in the infirmary, where they were keeping him away from the general population. Keeping him separate because he was a cop, but he was also relieved because— Could convicts tell that he’d been having sex with another guy? He didn’t think _he_ could really tell, but could _they?_ Ray didn’t want to imagine what would happen if they could, but his mind kept serving up pictures that curdled his blood. He closed his eyes and swallowed hard. _Hold on, Vecchio_.

He didn’t want any part of this, especially without— Would Fraser get himself locked up again to help him? Probably not, since what they really needed was somebody outside, clearing Ray. But would Fraser think of getting himself locked up, so he could be with Ray? Did Ray really want him to?

Lights out. Ray swung his feet onto the cot and lay back. _Relax, Vecchio. Your favorite Mountie is working right this very minute to get you out of here. Relax. This’ll just be some great story you and Fraser can tell your grandkids—_ Ray grinned at the ceiling. Grandkids. No kids with Fraser—too bad, because he’d make a great father. _Don’t get weird, Vecchio_. But, kids with Fraser’s eyes—

He turned his mind away from the weird thought to the memory of being booked, reliving the stiff way all the cops at the station house had acted around this bad cop who’d disgraced them, the humiliation of being handcuffed and processed in front of his own, the way Daniella Brown had worked not to smile when Ray had whispered to her, “Book me, Danno.” No bail. No bail because he was such a wrong guy, a bad cop, a bad guy, a disgrace to the force, a disgrace to his family, a disgrace to humanity in general ….

 _Ah, god, Fraser, get me out of here_. Ray stretched every muscle and tried to relax. Fraser would get him out of there; he could count on Fraser. And then they’d have such a night that all the bad memories would be burned to a crisp in the heat of passion. Ray smiled. Being apart just kind of—brought out the lust in them.

It had happened before. They’d had to be apart for a week, not long after they’d become an item. That first period of hard and fast and horny for each other had faded to something slower and more romantic; it was quickening, again, into an insatiable hunger for each other just when Welsh loaned Ray to another precinct for a special stakeout: one of those situations where Ray’d had to spend twenty-four hours on site for a week, someplace where too much coming and going would be noticed. Great for a guy with a need for overtime; lousy for a guy with a hot cock.

First night: okay. Setting up, shooting the breeze with Derkowitz and Klinghofer and Lane, establishing the schedule had been enough of a diversion that he hadn’t thought about Fraser more than, oh, say fifty or sixty times instead of the usual five million.

Second night: tense, but he’d get through it. Twelve hours on, jawing with Lane for the first six, then six with Derkowitz when he took over for Lane; snapping at Klinghofer because he’d been a little late. Tired. Creeping into the bedroom where Lane had already crashed, and stretching out on the squeaky cot. But tired enough to fall asleep immediately.

Third night: disaster. Well, not really, but, suddenly, in the shower, things had gotten out of hand; the hot water sheeting over Ray’s body suddenly became Benny’s tongue exploring all his most secret parts, and before he knew it, Ray was groaning into the washcloth, hips pumping mindlessly into a fist that was Fraser’s hand or Fraser’s mouth or Fraser’s ass, milking himself until he could barely stand.

The rest of the week, he’d been the cleanest guy on stakeout.

And, homecoming. Ray smiled and turned on the narrow cot. Homecoming. A stop off at Fraser’s apartment before he went home; and five minutes later he was half across the bed, with the Mountie gasping in his ear. Didn’t even get his coat off. Not much dressing afterward, either: just unsnarl the tangle of trousers and briefs and belt around his ankles, neck a little with the dreamy-eyed Mountie unsnarling his own jeans, and Ray was on his way. Felt so good, he’d gone back later that evening and timed it again. Four minutes, that time.

This time, what—three? Ray grinned into the darkness. Maybe he should just walk in there naked—go for the world record.

Meantime, just keep on holding on, knowing that Fraser was out there on the case, working to spring him.

——

The rose was in the trash bin outside the apartment building, but its scent seemed to have worked its way into Fraser’s soul, flavoring his thoughts. Fraser tensed and relaxed each muscle in turn. He was sleeping on the floor tonight; the bed seemed just too big. Floor was hard and familiar. He frowned: _very_ hard. _You’re getting soft, Fraser_.

Relax. Tomorrow he would start afresh on Ray’s case. Search and interview and solve. And bring Ray home to his bed. And there, passion would erase the fear and heartsickness of the last few days.

They’d been kept apart before, for a week not long after the relationship began, just as it was sliding into a lush, highly charged phase of deep eroticism. Ray had been put on stakeout at an undisclosed location where conjugal visits would have been—inappropriate. The first day and night, Fraser had managed to keep himself occupied enough that Ray’s absence was endurable, an interlude sweetened by his longing and sweetened further by the knowledge that it was not permanent.

The second day and night, loneliness had begun to settle in, along with a jumpiness he’d assuaged with a long run with Diefenbaker. Ray’s return would be all the sweeter, but Fraser ached for him—quite literally, that next morning, when an erection occupied his thoughts until he could melt it with an icy shower.

The third night, a longer run with Diefenbaker made little difference. Nor did opening all the windows in the apartment to the chill spring breeze. Tossing on the bed, with sounds of a Chicago night pouring into the apartment, Fraser suddenly realized that he was no longer in control, his body insisting that the breeze was Ray’s breath on his skin, that the sheet against his back was Ray’s body against his; and before he could stop, he was on his side with his boxer shorts lost somewhere in the sheets, gasping a single name into the pillow while his hips pumped into a fist that was Ray’s fist or Ray’s buttocks, and passion poured from him again and again and again, until he’d fallen asleep.

The rest of that week, each night before bed he had stripped himself for the sweet, hot, insatiable lover in his mind.

And the return. Fraser laughed quietly and turned onto his back. Oh, that return! Fraser had held himself in check, making chili just in case Ray was hungry, not daring to plan anything more than a quick hello and maybe a companionable meal.

One glance of the glowing hazel eyes; one cheery, “Honey, I’m home!”; and Fraser was on the bed, jeans halfway to his knees, hips pumping in happy syncopation with Ray’s strangled groans of pleasure. The chili had congealed in the pan sometime after Ray left for home, sometime before it occured to Fraser to get up off the floor onto which they had slid while kissing and to continue his daydream someplace perhaps more comfortable.

Fraser still had not gotten around to putting the chili into the refrigerator, when Ray returned and Fraser’s body again took command.

Fraser smiled into the darkness. And this time? This time, don’t bother with the chili at all. Just strip and stand naked at the door, ready and able and, oh, most certainly so very willing.

Meanwhile, interrogate witnesses, collect evidence, search out the truth that would bring Ray home. He could do this.

He had to. He simply—he just had to.

“Constable Fraser.”

“ _Yes!_ ” Fraser blinked. Tired. He was just— A restless night last night—really, he’d been so _cold_ on the floor, without Ray’s warmth—and so much to do at the Consulate that he’d come in even though he really wanted to pursue a couple of leads—

“Constable Fraser?”

“Yes! Yes—yes, Constable Turnbull.”

“Inspector Thatcher has—” Oh, Turnbull had that expression on his face. The puppy one. “Inspector Thatcher has asked that we drive out to pick up some eggs from a Mr. Lyndon Buxley—special eggs, apparently, to be served at the brunch for the Mexican ambassador on Tuesday. She says you’d know where the farm is.”

Oh, yes. Fraser knew. “Yes, Turnbull!” he said, standing. And, while they were out, they could just take a jaunt to see Ray—

“Constable,” Turnbull said, frowning over the wheel of the van, “do you—understand—Americans?”

Oh, dear. Fraser wasn’t sure he was quite up to this.

“Well, they do speak English,” he hazarded. “Of a sort.”

“Do they?” Turnbull really seemed to have his doubts.

“Er, yes. Why do you ask?”

“Well, Miss Vecchio—”

Fraser closed his eyes. Oh, no.

“— _says_ I asked her out, but I don’t seem to remember doing such a thing.”

This sounded very familiar. “So how _was_ your date?” Fraser asked.

“Delightful. Miss Vecchio is—delightful.”

Fraser didn’t really want to listen further. He looked longingly at the other vehicles on the roadway, at all those people not hearing about the delightful Miss Vecchio and the puzzled Constable Turnbull. Thank heaven they weren’t that far from the jail.

“Do I look all right?” Turnbull asked.

“Er, yes.”

“I don’t want to leave a bad impression on Detective Vecchio. After all, she is his sister.”

Oh, dear.

Fraser felt a pang as he and Turnbull were signed in and taken to see Ray. Ray in jail—

He looked pale and tired, but he smiled when Fraser sat down on the visitor’s side of the glass. Fraser’s heart tumbled over in his chest. He lifted the receiver.

“Hey, Fraze. How’s it going?”

“Ah, it’s going—well. It’s going well, Ray. I—” Fraser glanced behind him at Turnbull, who was frowning at his Stetson. “Ray, have you talked to Francesca lately?”

“No. Why?”

Fraser found himself leaning closer to the glass, murmuring into the receiver in a low voice. “She visited the Consulate last week and—” Turnbull was brushing invisible lint from his boots. “Well, Ray, she met Turnbull, and they’ve— Well, Francesca seems to have—” Oh, what was a delicate way to put this?

“You’re kidding.”

“Ah, no ….”

“Jeez, Frannie.” Ray looked exasperated, then grinned. “It’s the uniform, Fraser.”

“Yes, but—”

Ray sighed. “Frannie, Frannie, Frannie. Let me talk to Turnbull.”

Constable Turnbull took the receiver. Fraser sat where he was, shamelessly eavesdropping: Ray’s voice was just audible through the glass.

“Hello, Detective Vecchio,” Turnbull said, waving at him.

“Hey, Turnbull. What’s this with you and my sister?”

“Erm—well, we— She’s very nice.”

“Yeah, well, I’m her brother; I’m gonna give you some brotherly advice. Let me make something really clear here. She’s my sister. I take care of her. You don’t hurt her—you hear me? You break her heart, I break your legs. You got that?”

Turnbull nodded, his expression that of the Labrador retreiver pup. “Er, yes,” he said. “Heart, legs; heart, legs. Yes. Yes! Understood, Detective Vecchio.”

“Good. Let me talk to Fraser.”

Turnbull held the receiver out to Fraser. “It’s for you,” he said.

“Thank you kindly,” Fraser said automatically. He put the receiver to his ear, pausing while Turnbull left; then, he turned when he realized that Turnbull wasn’t leaving. Instead, he stood at parade rest just at Fraser’s elbow, gazing placidly at nothing; he seemed to be—oh, dear—he seemed to be standing sentry.

“Constable Turnbull?” Fraser said.

Turnbull focused on him.

“Perhaps you should—go and—er—well, watch the door.”

“Yes, Constable Fraser! At once, Constable Fraser!” Turnbull pranced— _no_ , Fraser corrected himself, he _strode_ to the door. And stood sentry there.

“Ray, I’m not sure it’s a good idea to encourage this relationship between Constable Turnbull and Francesca. He’s not all that—all that—” Oh, what was a delicate way to put this?

“—Bright, Fraser?”

“Er—”

“Fraser, Frannie doesn’t need bright. Frannie needs loyal; Frannie needs steady; Frannie needs adoring; but Frannie doesn’t need bright. What Frannie really needs is a Labrador retriever, but Turnbull’ll do.”

Well— Fraser glanced at the tall young Mountie steadfastly not noticing the stares the jail personnel were giving him.

“So, what you got, Fraser?”

“Ah. Well.” Ray smiled at the gifts Fraser passed to the guard to give him; his smile vanished at the description of a day spent in frustration; he began to look uneasy when Fraser mentioned getting no leads on the young man who’d given him the money. “But I think perhaps that if I can just interview Alessandra Willson’s lawyers—”

“So you still got bupkis.” Ray sounded disbelieving.

“Well, Ray, there are a number of leads that—”

“Fraser, I got Milk Duds, I got chewing gum, I got soap and a toothbrush and dental floss and a rag to shine my shoes with, and I got a little plastic chicken; and you still got bupkis.”

Fraser’s stomach lurched. “I’m actually quite optimistic.”

Ray seemed to be clutching his receiver unnecessarily tightly. “Fraser, I got to get out of here.”

Fraser met his eyes steadily. “I’ll do it, Ray. I’m following several leads. I’ll find her. I’ll find a witness. We can do this, Ray.” He tried to put into his gaze every bit of the love he felt.

Ray seemed to see it; his hand relaxed. “Tell Frannie—tell Frannie I love her,” he said finally. “And tell her she can always count on Mounties. She should trust her Mountie. He won’t let her down.” His eyes told Fraser that Ray knew this from experience.

Fraser’s own hand was shaking as he hung up the receiver. Trust was one thing; being worthy of it could sometimes feel impossible.

——

Ray had the feeling the guy was going to be trouble the minute he came into the infirmary. Stitches: the guy had cut himself. Ray was mopping, trying to be invisible, but,

“I know you,” the guy said.

Oh, jeez, a perp Ray had put away? The ultimate nightmare: running into a perp out for revenge.

“Yeah. I know you. You cut me off.”

“Huh?”

“On 294. You cut me off. Green ’72 Buick Riviera. June 16. Morning. Guy with a weird hat sitting on the passenger’s side. Wolf in the back seat. You cut me off, you—”

Ray felt his eyebrows climb halfway to what was left of his hairline. Oh, _why_ was this his life? Why was this _always_ his life? Cut a guy off _one time_ , and— Ray focused on his mopping, trying to ignore the cold, hard, psycho gleam in the guy’s eyes, trying to mop the guy out of here.

“You’re dead. I mean it. You’re dead.”

Ray believed him. This was, after all, Chicago in the ’90s. And that perp did not look stable. He clutched the mop handle tightly after the guy left. Ah, _god_ , he had to get out of here. Of all people to have after him …. To have a vengeful perp looking to kill him would at least have some dignity about it, but some psycho he’d cut off once on 294— _Fraser, rescue me; rescue me. God, Fraser, rescue me_.

——

Escape was impossible. He just could not seem to get away from the Consulate, from Turnbull’s unending perplexity, from Margaret Thatcher’s unyielding insistence that Fraser see to every detail of the upcoming events—

“Are you _in_ , Constable Fraser?”

Oh, not that again. “Yes, Turnbull.” He smothered the urge to smother Turnbull.

It was Detective Phaedra Dewey, looking surprisingly nonplussed.

“I shouldn’t be doing this,” she said. “Thank you,” she said, sitting in the chair he held for her.

“I shouldn’t be doing this, but you seem such good friends with him.”

Fraser’s heart felt like lead.

“IA got a phone call this morning, told them about this locker key in Vecchio’s desk, fit a locker at the train station, and—well, they found a briefcase there with about twenty thousand dollars in it. Cash from some bank robberies. And money orders. About forty thousand worth. Made out to Vecchio’s father.”

For a moment, her voice seemed to fade. He took a deep breath. Sleep. He should have slept more last night; he hadn’t slept well since Ray’s arrest; he was tired, and everything around him was fading in and out—

“—I mean, he’s a stupid jerk, but, I don’t know, I kind of got used to him. Reminds me of one of my brothers, you know? Constable Fraser?”

“Yes!” He looked at her. She really had a kind face. A very kind face. “Thank you, Detective Dewey! I appreciate what you’ve done here. Thank you! I—do you think I could accompany you to the station house? I won’t tell anyone of your visit—”

So he got up and left his office and his duties and his responsibilities. In the middle of the afternoon he simply left the Consulate without a word to anyone and accompanied Detective Dewey to the station house. He was still—exhausted: every sight and sound seemed distant. He really did need to sleep. Get a good night’s sleep.

Leftenant Welsh didn’t seem at all surprised to see him. “Ah, Constable Fraser,” he said. “Good of you to drop by. We’ve learned of some evidence—”

Piled on a desk, $20,000 looked like more. But even those drab green bills looked more impressive than the money orders.

“Would you believe he hid the key in the base of that little Statue of Liberty statue on his desk?” Sullivan said. “ ‘Bring me your poor.’ ” He seemed to be quoting something.

“Not much to kill a guy for,” said Bailey.

Fraser had to agree.

“Must be more someplace,” Bailey went on.

Fraser looked at the two Internal Affairs detectives. They seemed very happy.

“It’s rather curious, however,” said Leftenant Welsh, “that there are no fingerprints whatever on the locker key.”

Silence fell.

“He wiped them off,” said Sullivan.

“Odd, given that the key would be so obviously linked to Detective Vecchio, it being hidden on his desk.”

“We got him dead to rights.”

Leftenant Welsh merely looked at him.

“We _have_ him,” Bailey said. “We got all we really need to convict him.”

And, watching the Internal Affairs men put the bagged and labelled evidence into a box, Fraser had the heart-stopping sense that he was right.

Fraser took a deep breath. He would prove Detective Bailey wrong. He took his leave of the leftenant and clattered down the stairs to the sidewalk. Alessandra’s lawyers. Perhaps they had another address—

They didn’t. Most were those terribly overworked public defenders who didn’t remember her and had to have someone look her up; and then the address she had given them turned out to be one Fraser already had; and with each dead end and every minute lost to waiting, Fraser found it more and more difficult to wrench his mind from Ray and what Ray was feeling and doing. And from a sense that they would never be together again, and that Fraser would have to commit some crime more serious than stealing Milk Duds just to be with him—

He rubbed his eyes as he emerged from the last lawyer’s office. Eat. Rest. His mind was going in circles because he was exhausted. Ray was in jail, but killing himself with exhaustion wouldn’t help him.

So he ate some food that could have been nourishing sawdust for all he tasted it, and he took a refreshing stroll down Stratmore, automatically checking each face that passed him for the young man who’d helped set up Ray.

That key. No man would be so intelligent as to wipe his fingerprints from an important key, and so stupid as to hide the key on his own desk. That key would unravel the plot. A key to a train locker filled with money, hidden in an object connected with Ray was just a coincidence; it didn’t mean that anyone in particular had done it; it was just a coincidence. Coincidences happened.

The scent of the rose when he opened door to his apartment was— He stepped back out into the hallway to escape it, to quell a sudden nausea. Something he’d eaten disagreeing with him.

Diefenbaker was growling: that constant rumbling so low that it was almost inaudible. Suddenly, it struck Fraser how often lately the wolf had done this. Someone had been coming regularly into the apartment—some stranger. Or someone Diefenbaker didn’t trust. Someone who may have hurt him in the past, shot him, perhaps—

Fraser took a deep breath and strode into the apartment.

The rose lay on the bed; he snatched it up. Petals soft as a woman’s cheek. As Victoria’s cheek—

He watched his hand close on the flower, crushing it, crushing, also, the memory of the scent of her skin, which suddenly threatened to overwhelm him. The crushed petals released their own fragrance. But, no good—destroying the rose was no good; he just had to get down on his knees and pick up the scattered petals, all of them, every piece of all of them, and throw them away properly.

When Fraser had done so, he suddenly felt restless. Really, he wasn’t the least bit tired; if he went to bed right now, he’d just toss and turn. He had a lead that could be followed up only at night; he should do it, get out into the fresh air, away from the smells of the apartment.

So, clothes changed, a half-hour later Fraser was at the alley on Stratmore, where the air was only marginally fresher. He’d washed his hands over and over, but the scent of the crushed rose still seemed to linger ….

Fraser straightened his spine and tried to look casual, just another man propping up a building. Silly, really, to allow himself to become so preoccupied with a flower. It was startling, but it meant nothing—certainly nothing _sinister_. Just a flower someone had left in the apartment; when a man had no locks on his doors, people felt free to wander in and leave things. Adam, for instance, had once left Fraser a picture of a Mountie—very well drawn, too. Just a flower.

Fraser peered down the alley. He had two targets tonight: the young man who’d given Ray the incriminating money, and Weird Waldo, who might give Fraser a clue. The trouble was, two targets meant that Fraser had to keep an eye on two locations at once.

Sillier, still, to let a flower remind him of something long dead, long in the past. Remind him of her. Fraser turned his head at a sound from the alley—just some paper blowing.

Ray, of course, might have put a different spin on the rose. That suspicious mind would have turned it into some diabolical clue. Sometimes, however, a rose was just—a rose. Fraser had gotten roses before, not always from Ray, but there’d been roses. For instance, when he’d come back to work after a blissful week spent in his apartment with Victoria Metcalfe—

Was that a shadow? He listened, then relaxed. No one. Roses in a box delivered to an office already filled with flowers from well-wishers. It had been pleasant to know that so many people seemed so fond of him, but embarrassing that he hadn’t actually been ill that week: that he’d simply called in sick—

That was definitely a sound. He listened. Paper. Paper blowing down the street. Golden week— His heart twisted in his chest. Golden week of every sense sated, every dream fulfilled. Memories washed through him. His heart tried to rebuff them, but his mind wouldn’t let it. Look at it; it had been a sham. Look at it; it was over. He had Ray now, Ray’s love.

The fire of passion that had broken from him; the sense of his own strength reined in by her soft fragility; heady feeling that in his ecstasy he was sweeping through the days smoothly as a skater on ice. Dark eyes lost behind a fragrant curtain of dark curls, rosebud mouth breathing his name over and over, taper fingers trailing over his skin, setting him ablaze—

Fraser shook himself. Dark eyes hard as obsidian as she revealed herself for who she was, rosebud mouth kissing him before shoving him from the automobile when he refused her, taper fingers curved around the gun she aimed at his face, the gun she’d already used to kill: she was no dream fulfilled. His love had been the reins she had used to control him; his love had been the whip she had used to punish him. She had systematically twisted what he was, turning his strength back on him, using his giddy ecstasy to confuse him, using his love of her to ensure his protection from her former accomplice, using his friendship for Ray to panic him into helping her; she had twisted what they meant to each other, staging a meeting in that sex shop that made a mockery of their love, demanding again and again that he prove he wouldn’t betray her; she had made him a liar and a thief. A soft loveliness beyond roses, but a diamond-hard heart.

That could not bring itself to kill him. She had stopped herself, twice, from killing him. Send him into danger, yes, but be there to help him when the money launderers tried to kill him. Threaten him with a gun, yes, but fail to use it at the last minute. Behind the hard heart, behind the flat eyes was a woman who loved so intensely it had transmuted to hate. He thought of that moment when he had tried to follow her after she’d lost everything but him, of the glow in the rose-tinged cheeks, the diamond brightness in those night-black eyes. Reaching, smiling, more beautiful than the snow under the moon—then, horror.

Fraser jerked. It was dark in the alley, not even a light above the theater exit. He peered into the dark. Was something stirring—? Shake off the memory of love turned to bile. Remember who you’re here for. Ray, who is trusting you. Ray, who is counting on you for his life. Besides, she’s nothing to you now. You are over her, bucko.

He started down the alley. Yes, definitely someone there, in Weird Waldo’s nest. Finally.

“Waldo?” he called out.

The figure didn’t seem to hear him at first, then it straightened. “Sleepin’ ’roun’ here,” it said.

Fraser came closer. The stench of cheap wine and unwashed human was almost overpowering. He labeled it, filed it, and then ignored it as best he could.

“My name is Benton Fraser; I’m attempting to find out what happened here last week—”

“Tryin’ to _sleep_. Just tryin’ to _sleep_.”

“Yes, but I hoped you’d seen something you could—”

“Sle-e-ep! A man tryin’ to _sle-e-ep_ around here!” His voice was getting louder. He was waving his arms.

“If you could just—”

The bottle sailed past his head and shattered on the wall behind him. Diefenbaker growled. “People tryin’a _sleep_ around here— _sleep_ in’!” Waldo bent for another bottle.

“ _Diefenbaker!_ ” Fraser ordered. The wolf stopped on his way to stop Waldo, stared at him, then sulkily sat.

Then jumped aside as another bottle shattered on the pavement at his paws.

“Tryin’a _sle-e-e-ep_!” Waldo shrieked.

“I can see that!” Fraser assured him. He began to back away. “I—I’m sorry to have bothered you. Good night; I—good night!” By the time Fraser reached the street, the man seemed to have settled in his nest.

Fraser stopped to regain his composure. As a witness, the man was—unsound. Anything he might have experienced that night would remain locked in his mind, useless for Ray’s purposes. He looked at Diefenbaker, examining him for splintered glass, fussing over him for a minute. “I’m sorry,” he said to the wolf. “Thank you for defending me, but he was— I’m sorry.” The wolf nuzzled Fraser’s cheek in forgiveness.

Fraser sighed. Another dead end. He trudged down the street, sketch clutched in one hand, and started another round of trying to find someone who recognized the young man who’d helped put Ray into jail.

It was cold tonight; it felt like snow. Did it snow in Chicago in October? He looked up at the sky. Nothing.

But he seemed to smell snow, and the scent followed him, into store after store as he pursued his quest.

——

That psycho seemed to be the unluckiest guy alive; or maybe he was deliberately hurting himself to get into the infirmary and rattle Ray. Because there he was again, clutching his stomach and staring at Ray with the dead eyes of a shark.

Ray looked at the bulging muscles of his forearms, the scarred knuckles of his ham-sized hands. There was some tattoo work there, on the backs of his fingers. Four-letter words. What the— “MAMA”? “PAPA”? Ray had heard of guys who’d tattooed “HATE” and “LOVE” and “LIFE” and “DETH”—yes, “DETH”—but to see “MAMA” about to connect with your face? This was some serious psycho.

He was glad when the guard came to get him to see some visitor.

He was gladder when he saw who the visitor was. “Aless!” he cried into the receiver. “Damn, am I glad to see you! Why didn’t you show that night? We been looking for you! You got to go to the precinct, tell them why I was there that night. Aless?”

This wasn’t the butt-wiggling Aless he usually brought in on something or other; this wasn’t the informant trying to grope him—or steal his wallet. She still looked the same: Vampirella dolled up for the big Halloween bash. But she just sat there, listening on the handset, staring at him with betrayed eyes.

“Aless?” he said. “Are you okay? You got to tell them that Rache really did call me that night. You got to talk to them—tell them what’s going on so I can get out of here. You’re gonna do that, right? I know now Brendan didn’t shoot at me, but you’re gonna help them find out who did, right? I’m real sorry he’s dead, Aless—sorrier than you know. But you’re gonna help me, aren’t you? We’ll get whoever did this if you help me. Aless? _Aless?_ ”

Because she had hung up and just walked away, leaving him there yelling through the glass until the guard stopped him, giving him no signal whether she was going to help him or help him fry.

——

There was no help there. Fraser realized it before the interview had gone on more than five minutes. Alessandra Willson would be no help. She hadn’t called Ray; she didn’t know if Rache had called Ray. She didn’t know where Rache was; Rache had a habit of disappearing for months at a time. She hadn’t been in touch with Brendan; in fact, she hadn’t even known he was in Chicago. He’d been in Austin, Texas, going to college there—at least that’s what he’d told her. Gotten a good job, taken classes at night. He’d been sending her money, a lot of it. And that was all she knew.

It was. Watching her for the telltale signs that she was lying as she printed her answers to their questions, Fraser knew with a heart-sinking feeling that she was telling the truth. Aless had been as shocked as anyone when Brendan had been shot. She knew of no associates in Chicago who were not in prison or a grave. She was devastated. She’d liked Brendan, had looked up to him. When he’d been killed by the one police detective she trusted, Aless had fled. To Wisconsin. Milwaukee. She’d gone there because— She couldn’t remember. Maybe it hadn’t even been Milwaukee. She couldn’t remember.

Fraser left the station house and then was at the alley off Stratmore with no memory of how he’d gotten there. He felt as if someone had pummeled him—a combination of poor sleep last night and the disappointment of Aless’s testimony hard on the heels of exhiliration that she’d shown up at the station. Well, search the alley again—thoroughly. Ignore the fact that even when the crime scene was fresh the alley was so heavily traveled that one trail would be difficult to follow. Do it anyway. Canvass the neighborhood. He’d missed something somewhere. An informant was no substitute for good police work. Nobody said this would be easy. He tried to press away the headache that was threatening to close in.

He had combed half the alley when a pair of boots stopped in front of him. He looked up.

“Special Agent Chapin!” What was an agent from the Federal Bureau of Investigation doing here? Had she heard—

She smiled at him. “Um—Fraser? Constable Fraser?”

“Yes!” That warm smile; that cool, intelligent gaze. No wonder Ray had fallen into infatuation so quickly. “Can I—can I help you?”

She looked around the alley. “I just wanted a look at the scene. I was keeping an eye on Brendan Willson—illegal arms. Now—” She combed her fingers through her hair. “Well, before I closed the file permanently, I wanted to see where it happened. Strange that Detective Vecchio should be the one to—close the file.”

“Have you seen him?”

She flashed him an unreadable look. “No. I have his statement. He—might not want me to see him in—jail.”

“No. You’re right; he wouldn’t.” But she did want to see Ray; Fraser could tell.

Did Fraser want Ray to see her? He watched her moving through the crime scene, standing where Willson had stood, where Ray had stood. She was beautiful, intelligent, competent. Did Fraser want Ray to see her again? What would happen if he did? Would Ray want to— _Don’t be silly, Fraser; Ray is yours, now. No need to feel jealous. Don’t be so ridiculous_.

“He says he aimed at the flash,” Special Agent Chapin said. “Well, just to the right of it. But he hit Willson about the middle of his back.”

Just where he’d hit Fraser— “We think there was an accomplice, someone who shot at Ray. Kneeling right about here.”

She moved to the spot and knelt, to become the shooter. “So you’re Willson, standing right—” Fraser took the position. “And I look up and see Vecchio, and I aim and fire and—”

“And I turn, because I didn’t expect you to shoot, and Ray shoots me—shoots me in the back.” Just as he had—

“But I don’t stick around to help you. I pick up the shell casing, and I get out of here.” She rose to her feet and look around. “But where do I go?”

“Behind you. Detective Vecchio is the other way; you run away from him.”

“But if I just run, he’ll see me going down the alley, or at least hear my footsteps. And the cops were pretty quick about blocking the other end. I have to— Was this here that night?” She put her hand on the garbage bin.

“In about that position, yes.”

“So I just whisk around in back of it, and he can’t see me. And I—”

“You follow the side of the alley, disturbing the trash at the edge.” Of course; why hadn’t he realized it sooner? He followed as she did just that. “Brushing the wall.” She came to Weird Waldo’s nest. “Disturbing a homeless man trying to sleep. Eventually coming to—” The theater door looked unopenable from the outside.

Special Agent Chapin looked at it. “I bet I came out through here and wedged it open just enough to get back through it. I bet I bought a ticket to one of the shows and fixed the door from the inside. And then I came out and met Willson and made sure he got shot and came right back through this door and was sitting innocently in the audience when the cops were searching the alley.”

 _What audience there was_ , Fraser mused when his eyes adjusted to the darkness inside the theater. Only one other customer, sleeping through the invasion of the Earth. Silly movie; Ray had insisted they see it. Just silly.

“Probably not many more that night,” Special Agent Chapin said. “This movie’s about to come out on video. Probably run its course here. In fact, might want to check to see if this is a legal copy.”

Searching the theater was almost pointless, but thoroughness demanded it. On the theater screen, people shouted and monumental objects exploded and technologically gifted alien creatures were fooled with a simple Trojan horse. Fraser tried not to think too much about what he was finding on the sticky floor or under the lumpy seats. No gun, no shell casing. No sound of an alarm on the fire exit when Special Agent Chapin opened it. They exited.

“So our perp wedged open the door, and nobody noticed,” said Special Agent Chapin. “And he or she took the gun and the casing and didn’t conveniently drop either in the theater. Helpful.”

“The spent bullet,” Fraser said. “I can’t figure out what happened to the spent bullet.”

“The perp couldn’t have pocketed that.”

They went back to the site of the shooting.

“No stray bullets in cars parked on the street,” Special Agent Chapin said. Apparently, she had read the reports quite thoroughly. “No stray bullets in the street itself.” Yes, _quite_ thoroughly. Because Ray was involved? Did the reason matter, as long as she helped?

“Actually, the street was pretty much blocked off,” said Fraser. “They were moving—” It struck him then, with the force of a hammer blow. Oh, why hadn’t he thought of it before?

“They were moving what?”

“They had taken apart the used parade floats, from the Columbus Day parade, and were moving them to the landfill.” Oh, where had his brains been?

“Taking them right down the street behind Vecchio. Nice, big surfaces for a bullet to lodge in.”

Fraser felt exhiliration sweep through him. The landfill. The bullet was at the landfill. The landfill was very large and very full; but Fraser would dig through it with his bare hands, if necessary.

——

Visitors weren’t necessarily a good thing. The ones last night hadn’t been, filling Ray in on all the grisly details of what had been found in that locker.

Ray saw today’s visitors and almost walked back out of the visiting room. Beside a determined-looking Frannie, his mother sat on the other side of the glass, glaring at him. He sat down and lifted his own receiver. Oh, this was going to be just great.

“Well, Ray!” Frannie said into her receiver.

“I see you brought Ma.” Ignore her; ignore those accusing eyes; she just wanted you not to ignore her.

“Yes! She thought it would be really great if she came to see you.” Frannie’s jaw was tighter than usual, and she had the Valkyrie-look in her eyes. Ray was glad he hadn’t been in the house during the discussion, in the car on the way down from Chicago; maybe the rest of the family would eventually heal and go on to lead productive lives if they could get some therapy ….

“Hi, Ma!” he said. Her lips thinned.

“Ma’s really glad to see you,” said Frannie. “Really glad.” She looked like she could bite bullets.

“So, how is everybody?” he asked.

“What does he care?” his mother murmured loud enough for him to hear through the receiver.

Frannie’s fingers tightened. “They’re just fine, Ray. Everybody’s just—fine.”

“Disgrace.” Ma, again. “He brings complete disgrace to his family, and he asks how they are.” She seemed to be talking to the air.

Oh, lovely; thank you so much for visiting. Another fun-filled night in lockup, and now this. On a Sunday, no less. Ignore her.

“So, what’s this with you and Turnbull?”

“Oh, you heard about that! Well, I— He’s very nice!”

“And normal.” Ma. “A normal young man.”

Frannie was valiantly ignoring her. “We went to the movies the other night. Did you know he likes lasagna?”

How interesting.

“Yes, and his favorite color’s blue, and he’s from some really nice place called Yellowknife, and—and—”

“He’s a good, normal boy.” Ma again.

“He’s very nice!” The Valkyrie was glittering in Frannie’s eyes; Ray was glad he wouldn’t be in the car on the way home. “I think we’ll be seeing a lot more of each other.”

“Good!” said Ray. It _was_ good. Frannie deserved a Mountie. Everybody deserved a Mountie.

After that, the conversation kind of fell apart. Just as they were leaving, Ray looked straight at his mother glaring at him and mouthed carefully, “I love you, Ma.” If it took, she didn’t show it.

So, back to the infirmary, where for a change the psycho driver wasn’t around, and back to the problem of how much more time that money in the locker would tack on to his eventual sentence. Because he was going to do time. He knew he was going to do time.

“Visitor, Vecchio,” said the guard.

It was Fraser this time. His face looked lined; his hands were cut and scraped, like he’d been digging with them. His jaw was set in a way that made Ray’s stomach churn.

“So, Fraser! How’s it going? You just missed Ma and Frannie.”

“Ah! Too bad. I thought I’d drop by to—” His eyes were bloodshot. “Did you know that Special Agent Chapin is in the city?”

For a minute Ray’s heart speeded up. “No, I did not know that.”

“Yes! She was trailing Brendan Willson and came by to—er—close his file. She’s helping me. We think we may know where the spent bullet is. We think it lodged in one of the parade floats they were taking away behind you. We’re certain we’ll find it.”

Parade floats—why hadn’t Ray thought of that sooner? “Good!” But Ray was sunk. Bullet or not, he was still sunk. One bullet didn’t erase all the rest.

And Fraser seemed to know it; he sounded just too hearty. “Yes! If we find the bullet, we can—there’s a chance we can— I mean, if there’s a bullet, there must have been a gun, and—”

“Gun’s probably in the river by now.” Time for a wake-up call, Fraser.

“Not necessarily.”

“And even if you find the bullet, that doesn’t really prove anything because there’s no proof it was aimed at me.”

“It’s a _start_ , Ray.”

“IA has a locker full of stolen money and money orders made out in Pop’s name and a fake ID with his name and my picture on it—”

“I didn’t know about the identification card. No one told me about the identification card.”

“Well, they told _me_.”

“If I can find the bullet, I can find the gun, Ray. Any rookie can find a gun. And if I can find the gun, I can find who shot at you. It’s really very simple, once you think about it ….”

Ray watched Fraser go on and on like that, explaining how really simple it all was once you looked at it just right. Had Fraser had all those lines in his forehead last week? Had that grim set to the luscious mouth been there before Ray had been arrested? The puffiness under the eyes hadn’t been there. And neither had the shaking in his hands—

For some reason, the shaking in Fraser’s hands stuck with Ray, churning his insides far into the night. If there was anything he admired about Fraser, it was that stupid optimism, that idiotic determination to bring a happy ending to everything, that confidence that if only he kept at things, everything would turn out swell. That Fraser’s hands were shaking shook Ray himself. Fraser losing it didn’t bear thinking about.

He thought instead about times that made him happy, taking refuge in remembering places where he and Fraser had been good together. That afternoon last summer when they’d made love in Ray’s bed and necked in the Vecchios’ shower—jeez, what they had done to the water bill …. That trip downstate where they hadn’t even touched each other, just drove around for a day, looking at those Indian mounds Fraser wanted to see, and being together.

That night last spring, when they’d gone out of the city to look at the eclipse of the moon and at the comet with the impossible name hanging in the dark sky like a glowing cloud. Leaning against the Riv, hearing little frogs peeping in the dark, while Fraser lectured on comets and eclipses; until Ray’s mouth and hands had got the better of him and started something sweet they’d had to finish in the shelter of some trees just off the road, while the little frogs sang and the moon edged out of Earth’s shadow.

That Canadian river where he and Fraser had been planewrecked or whatever you called it. His and Benny’s place. Nice, there toward the end: bad guy smashed—quite literally, and hadn’t _that_ been a mess—Fraser healing, air crisp, leaves colorful, river a shining path. Peaceful.

He settled in to thinking about how it had been, how it would be if they were there now. Making love under the sky; sleeping on a ground that his imagination made softer than reality, and a lot less full of sharp rocks. Him and Fraser just floating forever down the river, talking, laughing, enjoying each other someplace where they could relax and really enjoy each other. Warm. Safe.

He thought about how it would be; and gradually those thoughts crowded out the shaking in Fraser’s hands and the sounds of the jail at night, until in his mind he was falling asleep safe and warm in Fraser’s arms, after a day full of talk and little adventures and an evening full of talk and lots of kissing, beside a perfect fire, hearing little frogs sing under a sky just jam-packed full of stars.

——

This shouldn’t be— Why were his hands shaking? What she was saying was just words—true words, but just words, not bullets, though he would prefer bullets. Why was he shaking?

Rose in the apartment last night; he’d started shaking when he saw it. Just a red rose. After an exhausting and frustrating day. Startling to find the rose there—just startling, that was all—but he’d begun to shake. And was still shaking this morning, after dreams of sunlight and snow that he didn’t care to remember.

“Yes, sir!” he said, trying to focus past the buzzing in his ears. Her dress uniform. He hadn’t taken her dress uniform to the cleaners as he was supposed to have done days ago; and now she was shouting at him about it, though she seemed to be shouting about more than just the dress uniform.

“Your responsibilities don’t just include whatever you decide they include! I need you! _Here_ —I need you _here_ , doing your duty, taking care of Consulate business, not digging around in some trash heap—”

“Landfill.”

“ _What?_ ”

“It was a landfill.”

“ _What difference does that make?_ Your duties lie in the Consulate, Constable Fraser, and in whatever I need you for, _when_ ever I need you! To do something for the Consulate, I mean. For the Canadian government. The Americans can certainly take care of their own affairs—they’ve been doing it for a couple centuries now. You’re here to take care of _our_ affairs— _Canadian_ affairs. Do you have that?”

“Yes, sir!”

“You forgot me, Fraser. I mean, you forgot about my needs. For my dress uniform. You’ve let yourself become so enamored of American glamor, you’ve forgotten me—us— _Canadians_. You’re Canadian, Fraser; you’re a member of the RCMP; you have responsibilities to Canadians that are more important than any responsibility to some American, even if he is your friend. Do you understand that?”

“Yes, sir!”

He was still shaking when she left his office; what was wrong with him? Reponsibilities, that was all. He had so much to do. He smiled reassuringly at Diefenbaker, who had slunk out from under Fraser’s desk the minute the coast was clear. The wolf was so tense these days—missing Ray, no doubt. As was Fraser. The back of his neck felt hard as iron.

He flinched as the door to Inspector Thatcher’s office slammed. Tense—she had a lot to think about. A lot of responsibilities. So, now, to the cleaner, with her dress uniform—that place on DuSable that did such an excellent job so quickly. Nice walk to clear his head; it was so airless in the Consulate today, his head was buzzing. So much to do—

And a choice: visit Ray before Fraser joined Special Agent Chapin at the landfill, or after?

——

The psycho driver and a friend were sitting in the infirmary, thermometers sticking out of their mouths while they glared at Ray. Thank God there was a guard nearby—Henry, was it? Ray stared at his mopping and tried not to shake visibly.

This had gone way past being funny; this guy was out for blood. Ray was going to have to do something.

There was a place inside him, left over from growing up in a complicated neighborhood, a place of hardness and violence. The kind of place where the Frank Zukos of the world spent their whole lives. He’d returned to that place once to deal with Frank; he might have to do it again. Sometimes Ray reached into that place with a particularly difficult perp: showed the steel and repressed fury deep inside him. He turned to that place now, considering it carefully, eyeing the landscape before slipping into it. It wasn’t a comfortable place, but it would protect him until he could leave.

He just didn’t want to have to take up permanent residence there.

——

So much there, at that landfill. So much to move and examine closely. A metal detector was just no good there: too much chicken wire and nails. And holes that looked like bullet holes, and paper-covered structures that a bullet could be lost in.

Fraser ached. There was—his head felt like it was being squeezed. The back of his neck was a column of stone. He was tired, but he’d dragged himself away from the landfill because it was too dark to search.

It was not too dark to search Stratmore for the young man; perhaps he was back; perhaps someone on vacation had returned and would recognize him from the sketch; perhaps he had—perhaps someone would—

Door to his apartment, and he looked at it in silence, Diefenbaker looking up at him. _Silly, Fraser, this is just a door_. Really, this was ridiculous. Just ridiculous. That someone was leaving him roses wasn’t sinister. _Buck up, Fraser_ _—they’re just flowers_. But his hand shook as it reached for the doorknob.

No subtle fragrance reached him tonight, and he felt his shoulders relax. Diefenbaker, however, pricked his ears and padded toward the bed.

The bed, oh, god, the bed, their bed. On which something gleamed.

He moved forward and watched his shaking hand reach for the snow-globe lying on the bed. He needed to be careful; he could break it. He’d broken another one once, one belonging to the Vecchios, to get something he needed. _Be careful, Fraser_. To get the key Victoria had hidden inside. Key to the incriminating locker. Key that would ruin Ray. _Don’t drop this_. Key.

This globe was cheaper looking, though the snow swirled in a blizzard when he shook it. A happy winter scene. A little girl twirling on skates on a tiny pool of ice, while two boys enjoyed a snowball fight nearby.

And snow swirled down, swirled down, covering them—

It had snowed for a day and a night and a day, there at Fortitude Pass, while he’d held her in his arms and tried to keep her alive, while she’d murmured words he couldn’t hear but that had stirred a heart in hiding, a heart wrapped up in duty, a heart suddenly struck as if by a bolt of lightning. The cold had almost slipped into him, but he’d kept her alive. “I can’t tell you the number of times your father almost died trying to bring some low-life to justice,” Girard had hurled at Fraser once, mocking his father; but that was a Mountie’s job, to keep the prisoner alive until—

The snow closed in, swirled down, swirled down—

And an eternity later, she’d lay in his arms, a billion times told lovelier and more dangerous than the snow, and begged him not to turn her in; but that was a Mountie’s job, to bring the prisoner to justice.

Snow, swirling down.

She’d tasted of snow; always when he’d kissed her he remembered the snow that had captured them; he’d smelled it even as he lay in his own blood on the train station platform, hearing her leave, hearing Ray plead, glimpsing his father’s scarlet uniform; feeling the coldness of his wound spread through him as if he were filling with snow or with some cold that had no name and could not be held back but through words about bleak embers falling to spill the gold-vermilion glory within. Spilled blood. Scarlet uniform. Snow.

In the globe, snow swirled down, swirled down, covering them all—

Fraser shook the globe again and again and yet again, but he could not keep the snow from drifting over the boys, so intent on their game while the smiling girl twirled forever just out of reach.

——

 _Just hold on_. Fraser would get him out of here. Another night of dreaming about the river, sometimes gleaming in the sunlight, sometimes fogged by snow. Just hold on; it would be over soon.

“Always knew you’d end up someplace like this.”

Oh, great. Pop, with the whiff of brimstone on him. Just what Ray needed.

“Too stupid for your own good. Lettin’ that Mountie get you into trouble—”

“This isn’t Fraser’s fault,” Ray murmured.

“Oh, isn’t it?”

“Vecchio, phone!” the guard called before Ray could figure out what his father meant.

 _Phone?_ Was Ray supposed to be getting phone calls? Some sort of privilege Welsh or somebody managed to wrangle. He’d have to thank them.

“Yeah, this is Vecchio.”

“I knew I’d find you there, Detective Vecchio.”

That soft, throaty voice told him everything. Ray took a deep breath, hands gripping the receiver. “Victoria,” he said.

“Very good, detective. Did you just figure it all out, or have you been thinking of me for a while?”

“This had your fingerprints all over it. It didn’t take too long to figure out.”

“But that hasn’t helped you much, has it, Detective Vecchio? Because, after all, you’re in there and I, Detective Vecchio—I am out here. Free. With Ben. And it’s just starting.”

The click on the other end of the line stopped him from saying anything. He hung up, himself, and smoothed his hands over his head, thinking. No use tracing the call: she’d probably used a pay phone. Tell Welsh.

He’d picked up the phone for a collect call to the station when a guard came by. “You Vecchio? You got a visitor.”

Fraser. In one of the conference rooms, so there wasn’t any glass between them. Ray looked down the table at him, consciously keeping himself from just lunging right for him and getting in a quick hug before the guard lunged in and dragged them apart.

“I thought I’d stop in before I went to the landfill—”

“It’s Victoria, Fraser. She’s been doing all this. She called me to tell me.”

Pause, while Fraser sat like he was frozen.

“She called you,” Fraser said.

“Yes, Fraser! She called me!”

Fraser stared at him with blank eyes for a minute, like he was having trouble processing this. “What—what did she tell you?”

What did she— Ray stared at the still face in front of him. “What was she supposed to tell me, Fraser?” he asked. “That she’s come back for you? That she’s got a train ticket for you? What was she supposed to say, Fraser? That she’s sorry and she’ll never do it again? Was she supposed to tell me she’s made it up with her favorite Mountie, and now you’re going to go off to be Nelson Eddy and whatshername together—”

“Jeanette MacDonald,” Fraser said absently.

“Huh?”

“It was Nelson Eddy and Jeanette MacDonald.”

“ _Who cares?_ ” Ray hissed. _Keep it low, keep it calm; the guard’s looking_. “Fraser, what was it she was supposed to tell me?” Suddenly his mouth was dry as cotton. “What was she supposed to say so you wouldn’t have to say it?”

Fraser looked at him now, suddenly focused on him. “I thought—I thought she would give you a clue as to where she was.”

“You—” Ray took a deep breath. “You haven’t seen her yet?”

“No.”

“But you knew she was here.”

Pause, for his heart to sink. “Yes. I—suspected she was—she was in the vicinity. There have been—there have been clues.”

Ray studied him for a minute. She hadn’t shown herself to Fraser. Just playing with him, or unsure what he’d do? Would Fraser do the right thing and arrest her, or—

“So now what?” Ray whispered. Oh, god, he hoped he didn’t already know.

“So ….” Fraser wasn’t meeting his eyes.

“Tell me something, Fraser.” Fraser looked at him. “Do you still love her?”

“N-no.” But there was a brittle edge to the word.

“Would you—go off with her?”

“No.”

Ray studied him. Truth shone in the blue Mountie eyes. But behind the truth he saw the thin edge of uncertainty.

“It didn’t end right last time,” Ray said. “It never really ended at all. I ended it for you; you never had a chance to do it yourself. How do you know you won’t go off and leave—” Glance at the guard; whisper. “—leave _me_ —leave me _here_. How do you know you won’t do that again? How do _I_ know you won’t?”

“I won’t, Ray.” Fraser’s voice sounded tight.

Oh, god, if only Ray could believe him. “It ain’t over ’till the fat lady sings,” he said. “I saw you last time. You looked—” _Breathe, Vecchio_. “Fraser, you— The way you were running— Well, let’s just say I don’t hear no singing, Fraser.”

Fraser looked at him. The uncertainty had taken over. Ray looked back, in a heart-sickening silence that stretched longer and longer—

Somehow, Ray pushed back the chair and got to his feet. The guard came in then and took his arm in the all-too-familiar grip. _Get used to it, Vecchio_.

Fraser didn’t stop him, didn’t say anything. Ray fought a sudden shakiness in his legs. At the door, he looked back. Fraser was looking at him, his eyes as sad as if they’d just said good-bye.

To make things worse, the psycho driver was back in the infirmary, supporting a friend bleeding through a rag tied around his arm. Ray ignored their dead-eyed stares and started for his cot.

And turned instinctively just as the friend went for him, blade sliding out from under the bandage and aimed for Ray’s stomach.

Ray dodged, tripped into one of the empty cots, clutched at the thin mattress, pulling it free. Homemade knife slashed right through it and got caught—

The guy made the mistake of stopping to tug at it. Ray shoved at him, knocking him against the wall, trapping his arms under the mattress. Cheers from the couple of guys on the other side of the room. And where was the other guy where was the psycho where was he what was he up to—

Watch the blade— Ray got one hand up and smashed the heel of it into the friend’s face, aiming for his nose. Blood poured everywhere, and the friend went down, clutching his face—

Ray flinched away from the chair that splintered against the wall two inches from his head. He whirled to see the psycho driver rush at him, meaty arms outstretched to grab him, MAMA and PAPA both coming at him at once—

He tripped over the friend, scrambled under a cot, kicked his way clear, got to his feet on the other side.

The psycho was just on the other side of the cot, not even breathing heavy, eyes gleaming with a hideous kind of happiness. Oh, god, Ray was dead.

They stared at each other for a second or two, the driver grinning. Lot of yelling going on somewhere.

Get this over with.

And then Ray did the hardest thing of his life. He put out his shaking hands, palm up—and moved his fingers in a “come here” gesture, inviting the psycho to come over and try his damndest with MAMA and PAPA and the whole damn family.

The psycho driver took a breath—

And the collar of Ray’s shirt bit hard into his neck as a big hand yanked him back and shoved him to the wall.

“Just cool it, Vecchio!” a deep voice ordered, and Ray felt the baton press across his shoulders, holding him still.

Rescued. Spread-eagle against the wall, eyes closed, Ray made himself relax while the guard patted him down, and listened to the struggle to subdue the psycho driver, who’d been cut off yet again. Ray’s mouth was full of that sour taste, like he was tasting the adrenaline still pumping through his veins. His guard didn’t seem very excited; he just stood there like he knew Ray wasn’t going anywhere. Henry. His name was Henry. Oh, thank God for Henry.

The driver’s friend was hauled to the doctor’s office, making a sick gulping sound that Ray didn’t want to ever hear again. And then the driver was manacled and hauled away, shouting words Ray also didn’t ever want to hear again.

“Are you injured?” Henry asked.

“No.”

“Are you sure you’re not injured?”

“No. I’m okay.”

“I’m going to cuff you now,” Henry said; and Ray smiled to himself at how often he’d been handcuffed recently by polite people. Fraser had been the best, which was good, because it would have to hold him for a while ….

And then Henry was marching him through about a thousand barred doors to solitary.

“Be safer with you in here,” said Henry.

But it was the size of a shoebox, and he was locked in, and there was no window and there was canned air and he felt like he was already in his coffin. Ray sank to the edge of the bunk and buried his face in his hands. _Ah, god, rescue me, Fraser. Rescue me, rescue me, rescue me, you have to rescue me_.

——

Had he called in sick today? That question still bothered him. Had he remembered to tell the Consulate he wasn’t coming in? If he hadn’t, it was too late; he was— A whole day gone at the landfill, tugging at splintering lumber, listening to Detective Huey complain about the smell and to Detective Dewey tell him to shut up, listening to Special Agent Chapin swear gently when something pricked through her gloves. His own gloves needed replacing; they were almost rags. Searching through garbage was hard on gloves. Had he remembered to call Leftenant Welsh about Ray’s telephone call from Victoria?

If he hadn’t, no matter; he was going over to the station after supper. Bathe first—change his clothes. Tired; would he ever sleep again? His head hurt. Feed Diefenbaker. The wolf had been surprisingly quiet today, anxious. Perhaps a little treat of a doughnut tonight. It might perk them both up.

The snow globe gleamed on the kitchen counter. Really, it was—it was a poor gift. He didn’t like it. Knick-knacks were distasteful. He should have gotten rid of it last night. He should throw it away.

But even after it went into the trash can it lingered on his mind. It was still in the apartment. Well, he should take the trash out anyway—

Her hand had been poised to knock; she froze in the act when he opened the door.

Dark eyes in a pale and lovely face. She was so lovely, oh, god, so very lovely still. He drew her in before anyone saw her.

“Ben.” An angel’s voice.

His could not get enough air. He felt dizzy. Suddenly, memories were pouring through him: of cold and of the fragrance of her warm skin, of her soft body trembling in his arms and of her bright laugh at a silly joke, of the smell of blood and of her sighs as he caressed her. Words spilling from her mouth as the cold crept into him. Dizzy, oh, suddenly he was as dizzy as if he were falling from a great height, with no one to catch him.

The snarl from Diefenbaker jolted him into the present. “Diefenbaker, no!” Fraser shouted, stepping between them as the wolf lunged for her.

The wolf cursed in his own language.

“No!” said Fraser. “And, if you can’t control yourself, you’ll have to leave.” He pushed the wolf through the door and closed it firmly. Shut the window to the fire escape. Prop the door shut with a chair.

“He hates me.” Victoria’s voice was shaky.

“He—you shot him. He—he thinks I’m in danger.”

“Ben.” Her eyes were full of unspoken promises. She touched his sleeve. He jerked away.

“Am I in danger, Victoria?”

“Not from me,” she said. “Not ever from me.” Oh, those eyes beautiful as the stars. Her hands, so light on his arm. He stumbled from her grasp, from the wave of memories.

He couldn’t think; the memories were thinking for him. Snow in her hair, the taste of her mouth—

“It’s over,” he said to her. “Whatever we had is over.” Suddenly he heard, as clearly as if it were happening, Ray’s voice saying, _I don’t hear no singing_. “Over,” Fraser said firmly.

“I love you,” she said, eyes deep with sadness. Hands flat on his chest.

“It’s—over.” It was. Where was the air in this room? He stepped back to find it.

“Ben, I came back because I—well, I had to.”

“I have to arrest you. You—you murdered a man.” The soft scent of her skin. The lightness of her touch. The snow of Fortitude Pass seemed to sweep through him, chilling him until he shook.

“He wanted to kill me.”

“The courts will allow for that. I’m sure the courts will allow for that.” Open a window; there just was no air stirring. That must be why he could not seem to catch his breath, why he felt so dizzy. He stepped away from her hands.

“Ben.”

Where was his jacket? He couldn’t seem to see past her eyes. “I have to arrest you. I have to take you in.”

“I—I know.” The catch in her voice tore something inside him. “Oh, Ben, I came back even though I knew I shouldn’t. Oh, Ben, I had to. I had to see you— I still love you.” Fingers light on his arms.

“It’s over.”

Her lovely eyes, so full of tears that one slid down her cheek.

His fingers went to it, to wipe it away. Skin soft as a rose petal.

“I love you, Ben.”

“It’s—”

“Shhh.” Her cool hands stroked his face. “You look so tired.”

“Victoria, did you—”

“Shhh.”

He pulled away. “Did you conspire to get Ray jailed?”

Her hands still sought him out. “Oh, Ben.”

“Did you?” He could not elude her seeking hands; he could not evade her diamond-bright gaze. “He told me you did.”

“He hates me, too.” The beautiful voice, murmuring through the darkness of the storm, warming him.

“But, did you?”

Hands cool as snow touched his face, his arms, his chest. “Ben, anything I’ve ever done has been so we can be together.”

“Even—even killing Jolly?”

“He wanted me dead. I was defending myself.” Her hand cradled his cheek. Such beautiful eyes.

“Even endangering me?” He could not seem to move away. Everything around him seemed to be swirling; she alone seemed steady. He could not look away for fear of falling.

“Ben.” Lips lush as cherries.

“Ben.” Hair black as night.

“You came for me, Ben.” She fairly glowed. He couldn’t look away.

“Oh, Ben, you ran to me. You ran to me. I lost everything but you; you were my faithful love. Ben.” Skin, oh, skin smooth as new snow. The memory of that soft mouth moaning his name. She stepped closer.

“You love me. I know you love me. Ben.”

And then those cool hands brought his mouth to hers, and he felt himself fall into the kiss.

——

He jumped at the sound of the door, but it was just Henry, bringing Ray his stuff.

“Thanks,” Ray said automatically.

He went through it, laying it all out like it was treasure. And because Fraser had bought it for him and because it was something to hold, Ray picked up the little plastic chicken and perched it on his chest as he lay on the cot.

Strangely enough, he felt relaxed. No more looking over his shoulder, waiting for the psycho driver to come for him. Ray was in a little shoebox, but it was a _safe_ little shoebox. No good for the long run, but not bad for now. He could handle this.

And Victoria— Thank god the period of not knowing was over. Now he had somebody specific to think about, a real person to hate. Fraser would find her and—and do what? Arrest her. Fraser would arrest her. Of _course_. And make her confess and get Ray out.

He thought about the uncertain look he’d seen in Fraser’s eyes. Victoria’s confident voice saying, “You’re in there and I am out here. Free. With Ben. And it’s just starting.”

 _It’s just starting_. She could do it; she knew how to press the Mountie’s buttons; she’d done it before. She could do it, and Fraser would go off with her, and Ray would be in jail for ever and ever, buried in this shoebox room for ever and ever.

Ray’s mouth twitched in a sour grin. This was like that story he’d had to read in school, where the wrong guy fell in love with the princess and ended up in a big pit, having to open one of two doors. Except, behind one door was forgiveness in the form of a beautiful girl he would have to marry, while behind the other was death in the form of a hungry tiger. The princess knew which door led to what, and the story ended with him reaching for the door she had nodded toward. It was a puzzle: would the princess overcome her natural jealousy and point him toward the girl, or would she rather have him die than marry somebody else? Was it the lady or the tiger? Could Ray stand to have Fraser free on the outside, but with Victoria, or would it be worse to have Fraser inside, among the savage tigers of this claustrophobic jungle? The lady or the tigers?

Ray snorted. He was glad he didn’t actually have to make the decision.

——

He drew away from her and sat up, feet firmly on the floor, ignoring his nakedness. _Oh, Ray. Oh, Ray, oh god, Ray, Ray_ —

“It’s all right.”

Her touch seared him like a branding iron. He jerked away from it, stood, crossed to the window, careless of his nakedness.

“Ben, it’s all right.”

It was not all right. Ray was in jail, and it was not all right. Fraser pressed his forehead to the cool glass for a moment. Then he heard the rustle beside him and flinched from her touch.

“Ben—”

“Don’t.” His voice didn’t sound like his own. “Don’t—touch me. Just don’t.”

His back pressed to the wall beside the window, he looked at her. She stood wrapped in the sheet, like a bride made of snow, her raven hair spread over her pale shoulders.

“Ben, you’re the only man I’ve ever really loved.”

“That won’t—that doesn’t change things.” He wrapped his arms around himself, suddenly cold.

“You love me.” Whispered, a catch in her voice.

“I don’t.”

“You came for me. You ran to me at the station, and if that detective hadn’t shot—”

“He did exactly what he should have done.”

“You don’t believe that. You couldn’t believe that.”

Oh, it was cold in here. But he’d been reared in cold places; he could live with the cold. “He did exactly what he should have done.”

“Ben.”

Her whisper shouldn’t pierce him so. “Get dressed,” he said. “I’m arresting you. I’m taking you to the police. Get dressed.”

Her chin came up; sadness and defiance flooded her eyes. “I don’t think so, Ben,” she said.

And she was right.

——

Another night without Fraser, except in his mind. It was—what day was it? Time in the shoebox seemed to have stopped.

Fraser didn’t come.

Breakfast came, and lunch came, and supper came, and lights out came; but Fraser didn’t come.

——

“You have to,” she said.

And she was right.

——

Another sleepless night, and another breakfast—and then there was Henry.

“Word down from above,” said Henry. “You got sprung.”

Just like that. Ray was dizzy. Just like that. Good old Fraser.

His heart lightened as door after door closed behind him for good, and he found himself walking faster and faster. Henry started laughing, and Ray grinned at him.

Even the thing with the psycho driver seemed to have been cleared up. Signed out; and property claimed; and he was free. Confused—but free! __

Someone was standing just inside the door outside, silhouetted against the brightness just beyond, and his heart quickened. _Fraser_ —

Then he got closer, and his heart fell when it wasn’t Fraser.

But, ohmigod, it was Suzanne Chapin. And, _damn_ , she looked good.

“I don’t believe it,” he said.

“Came to give you a ride,” she said. “We have a _lot_ to talk about.”

That was an understatement. When they got to the station and the last piece of the tangled chain had been set before him, Ray sat for a minute, too stunned to speak.

“What?” he said.

“Water.” Elaine was trying to hand him something. It was a cup of water.

“Thank you kindly, Elaine.”

She looked surprised for a minute; then she looked at Welsh and left. He drank the water. It didn’t make any of the evidence go away, but the cup gave him something to hold onto.

“Detective?” Welsh.

“Huh? I mean, yes, sir?”

“Should I call the paramedics?”

Huh? “No, sir. No—sorry! Sorry, sir, this is just—overwhelming.”

“She really hates you a _lot_ ,” Dewey commented. She seemed surprised when Welsh and Huey and Ray looked at her in silence for a minute.

So Victoria had—good god, how long had she been working on this? Bank robberies and computer hacking—how long did this kind of thing take to plan and set up?

“It was the bullet that started to unravel everything,” said Suzanne. “Too bad Fraser wasn’t here to find it, since it was his idea. Only took three days of digging through garbage to find, but it was worth it.”

“Rattling around in the center of that world globe. Punched right through Canada,” Huey said.

Ray tried to hide his flinch. Not everything was symbolic.

“And the keyboard,” said Dewey. “Fingerprints on Seggebruch’s computer keyboard.”

“Victoria’s,” said Ray.

“And it all came together,” said Suzanne.

Ray smoothed his hands over his head. Something seemed to be wrong with his breathing.

“The bullet from the globe matches the one Seggebruch took,” said Welsh, “and we have both cases connected and solved.”

“And a whole bunch of bank robberies cleared up,” Huey said. “Texas, Louisiana, Oklahoma, Missouri—we’ve got money here from at least half a dozen robberies. Collecting money to nail you and pay off everybody who was helping her. At least one other murder: guy down in Texas who got away with ten thousand dollars before somebody shot him. Money from that robbery here, too.”

“Black widow,” Dewey murmured. “She uses and then she kills.”

Ray stared at her. Oh, god, don’t say that. Fraser—

“And right after she shoots the guy in Texas, she finds Brendan Willson, having learned of him by going through the records of Detective Vecchio’s cases,” said Welsh. “Which she gets from the department mainframe, thanks to a program—” He slid the computer disk in its plastic bag into the center of the table. “—Jeremy Seggebruch writes that will select Detective Vecchio’s case files for her perusal. Security procedures at the mainframe will be—re-evaluated.”

“And he makes an ATM card,” said Ray. “He makes an ATM card for Willson to use when he deposits the money.”

“Probably from an ATM receipt one of you threw away at the machine, instead of destroying it.” Huey’s voice hinted that the idiot who’d done that was Ray.

But Ray had a couple suspects of his own. He was going to have to have a brotherly chat with them about receipts—whether they wanted to, or not.

“And then she kills him—or Brendan does—and she reformats his computer to destroy the evidence,” said Suzanne.

“But not all of it,” said Dewey, “because she didn’t have time to destroy those two thousand, five hundred, and seventy-two backup disks he had in there. Good thing she didn’t just set a fire, because then it would have burned up all those two thousand, five hundred, and seventy-two disks. No, she had to leave those two thousand, five hundred, and seventy-two disks just sitting there for us to find. Two thousand, five hundred, and seventy-two disks, and only three hundred of them had labels that made any sense at all.”

Ray peered at the disk in the evidence bag. “M-V,” its label read. Which could have meant “Metcalfe-Vecchio” or could have meant “Miami-Vice” or could have meant part of the alphabet.

“More robberies in Chicago,” said Huey.

“I get slipped a twenty from the latest one by that guy I thought was trying to con me,” said Ray, “and he disappears with whatever she paid him.”

“Probably lying in some alley,” Huey said. “Sleeping it off. Wouldn’t remember you even if we did find him.”

“Metcalfe tucks twenty thousand in cash and forty thousand in money orders made out to Vecchio’s deceased father in a train station locker—” Dewey said.

“Money orders being a cheap and easy way to launder Detective Vecchio’s illegal proceeds,” Welsh murmured.

“—and the locker key gets into the base of Vecchio’s statue of Liberty—how?” said Suzanne.

“Rache.” Ray’s mouth quirked. “She came in with Aless one day; knocked Liberty off the desk. Could have put it in there then.”

“Once Detective Vecchio is—er, incarcerated,” Welsh said, “Internal Affairs receives an anonymous tip as to the location of said key.”

“Which finishes Detective Vecchio.” Huey didn’t have to sound so pleased.

“Who has finished Brendan Willson for her.” Oh, god, Victoria had used Ray to clean up for her, tidy up one of the loose ends. Ah, god, he’d killed a man—and she’d profited.

They sat in silence for a minute. Ray still felt stunned.

“So, now,” said Welsh, “the question is: where _is_ Ms. Metcalfe?”

 _And where is Benton Fraser?_ Ray thought. _Why isn’t he here, with me?_ But he already knew: Fraser was with her. He was with Victoria. She had him.

And, even with Ray out of jail, that meant she’d won. Something inside him was opening up: some bottomless hole trying to suck all of him right into it.

“My office,” Welsh said to him when the impromptu meeting broke up.

“Yes, Lieutenant.” Suddenly Ray felt exhausted.

“Your badge, detective.” Welsh handed it to him. “And—your gun.” Welsh fixed Ray with a look as he handed it over. “Please be careful where you fire it. We don’t want any—bystanders—getting hurt.”

“Yes, sir.” Ray’s face felt hot as a red-hot stove. “Mounties,” Welsh had meant. “Don’t shoot Fraser again,” Welsh had meant. Well, Fraser wasn’t the target Ray had in mind.

“Go home, detective,” Welsh said. “Rest. Let us find Ms. Metcalfe. Stay out of it. That’s an order.”

“Yes, sir.”

Go home. Ray stumbled down the stairs. Home. Home to a family that had disowned him? Or home to an apartment empty of the center of his life? Which, exactly, was home?

She was waiting for him, leaning on a rental car. Suzanne.

Damn, she looked good enough to eat: big eyes, long honey-blonde hair, and that mole just above a mouth that was dessert all by itself. His heart jumped in his chest like a startled frog. But some part of him was saying, _Down, boy; you’re taken_. And it was right: he was taken. The guy had run off with the lousiest piece of work on the planet, but Ray was taken.

“Just couldn’t stay away, huh?” he said, grinning at Suzanne.

“Saving your butt again,” she countered. There was warmth in her eyes and a luscious promise in her smile. Ray took a shaky breath.

“Damn awful timing,” he said. “I’m kinda—involved—”

Some light went out in her eyes, and her back straightened. “Well, we’ll always have Highway 31.”

“Yeah.” Damn. Oh, damn, she’d come back and rescued him. She’d come back; she’d come back. The sweetness of that moment when he’d first seen her flooded through him, and for an instant that old flame flared up. _Damn_ , she was a class act.

He stepped forward and kissed her softly, a kiss flavored with regret. Her mouth was as sweet as he’d remembered.

She grinned wryly at him when he stepped back. “That kiss meant something,” she said mockingly, quoting him from that long-ago time.

He grinned at her. “Yeah. It meant, ‘Thank you, and in some other universe ….’ ”

She looked at him for a minute, and then her lips touched his for an instant.

“Well, having rescued your attractive rear end,” she said. “I’ll disappear into the sunset. Case is closed on Brendan Willson, but there’s plenty more where that came from.”

As her car pulled away, Ray felt like a bridge he’d come to count on had just broken apart as he stepped off it.

He stood for a minute, just drinking in the sun. Damn nice afternoon; a little chilly, but it would be a damn nice evening for all the little trick-or-treaters. The hole inside him seemed to be swallowing the warmth of the sun; he warmed himself by thinking about Victoria. Keep away the coldness of Fraser’s betrayal with the good, hot fury of hate.

“So you finally got your chance to kill her,” said his father.

Ignore him. Ray started down the street.

“You finally got a chance to do it,” said his father. “Finally start acting like a real man.”

Ray turned on him. “So—is that it? Is that what you’d do? Kill her? Kill Fraser too, maybe? Is that what a real man would do?”

“She put you in jail; she deserves it. And him— He left you there and went off with her. He deserves it, too. And with him dead, maybe you’d go back to girls, like a normal man, a _real_ man, instead of a faggot! I gotta spend my time in Purgatory watching you getting humped by some—”

Horns blared as Ray darted across the street to get away from his father’s voice. Real man. Finally got his chance to kill her ….

He leaned against a building to wait for his insides to settle. _Ah, god, Fraser, you left me_. Something was twisting inside him—maybe his heart. Ray closed his eyes and listened to the sounds of the Chicago streets. _Oh, god, I trusted you, and you_ left _me_.

He opened his eyes and looked up at the sky. Like he was surprised. He realized now that at the back of his mind he’d always expected Fraser to leave him some time or other: fall out of love, go back to Canada, go after Victoria—something. This shouldn’t have been a surprise. But— _Oh, god, Fraser, you left me_ _; you left_. Misery dragged his soul toward that dark place inside him. Find them. End it. _Look out, lady, here comes the tiger_.

He took a deep breath; he shook himself. He pulled away from the dark place. _Go home, Vecchio. Just go home, Vecchio_. Home to the apartment, though there was something he needed to check before he went up to the empty place.

The Consulate was—well, “frenzied” was such an ugly word. And Thatcher was really not happy to see him:

“ _What?_ ”

Geez, with a temper like that, no wonder the Mountie had gone for Ray instead.

“I was hoping to find Fraser here—”

“He’s not here. He’s— You’re the reason he’s been shirking his duties, detective. He’s been forgetful and preoccupied and irresponsible, and it’s been because of that trouble you were in— Why aren’t you in jail?”

“I’m innocent.”

That didn’t seem to convince her. “And now he’s taken my good dress uniform to some cleaners, and no one seems to know which one, and we can’t find the claim ticket, so now I can’t wear it, as I’d planned, and—” She stood up, suddenly all smiles. “Inspector Pangborn! How nice to see you before you leave! I hope you and your men found the accomodations to your satisfaction.”

Ray turned to see a black Mountie stride into the office. Panborn was a big guy, taller than Ray, whom he looked over, analyzed, filed away, and dismissed. Behind Pangborn, Turnbull shifted from foot to foot like a worried child.

“Yes, Inspector Thatcher; quite satisfactory. The Musical Ride always enjoys its stop in Chicago. Of course, sometimes the trip out is more eventful than we like.” He was staring pointedly at Ray.

“Well, I see you’re busy,” Ray said to Thatcher. “I’ll call you if there’s any information on that matter we spoke of.”

“Ah—good!” she said. “Always glad to help.”

Her eyes still despised him, but oh, butter wouldn’t melt in her Mountie mouth.

To Ray’s surprise, Turnbull followed him. “Detective Vecchio, may I speak with you a moment?”

“Yeah, Turnbull.”

“I—er—I’m hoping you could—ah—give me some advice about Francesca.”

 _Oh, you poor, sweet sap_. “Flowers; candy; adoration. These are the keys to a Vecchio woman’s heart, Turnbull. And a really good appetite for really bad linguini with clam sauce. Take care, Turnbull.”

When he left, he could hear the Mountie muttering, “Flowers candy adoration linguini with clam sauce. Flowers candy adoration linguini with clam sauce. Flowers candy adoration linguini with clam sauce.” Ah, jeez, maybe Ray should have written it down for him.

Home, or supper? Ray consulted his stomach and decided on supper. Quick sandwich.

Now, home, or— There were no options left. It had to be home. He steeled himself for the empty apartment.

First, though, he stood in the street for a minute, just looking at his car. Riv, sweet Riv. Fraser’d taken good care of it. _Damn it, Fraser_ —

There was a streak of white, and a wolf was all over him.

“Dief!” Would Fraser willingly go off without— “Yeah, I know; I know. He went off with that horrible woman and left you with Willie or somebody. Yeah, I know. We’ll find him, Dief.”

He stepped into the apartment, which felt cold, abandoned, like Fraser wasn’t ever coming back. _Fraser, oh god, Fraser, you left me_ —

Bed still made, stuff in the kitchen—the only things missing were the pictures on the little table and Fraser’s father’s journals. And Fraser’s clothes. Ray stared into the closet, his heart twisting at what he found there.

Three uniforms—red, brown, and blue—and a Mountie hat on the shelf. Everything that was the man had gone; everything that was the Mountie remained. Fraser’s self-respect, abandoned in a closet.

He was staring at the uniforms when he realized there was a soft knocking coming from the front door. Puzzled, he opened it, shooing Dief away.

And looked down at a miniature Mountie. Little kid—Adam, was it?—in a red suit coat way too big for him, loop of string around his neck, brown belt, blue jeans with construction-paper yellow stripes pinned on them tucked into brown rubber boots, brown hat with a construction-paper band. And one of those orange plastic trick-or-treat bags stores gave out this time of year.

“Trick or treat.” The words were almost whispered.

“Oh, hey, you startled me there. Well, Constable, let me see what we got here for you.” He’d bought some candy a few weeks ago, before it all got too picked over; he hated disappointing the little kids with that stuff that only cheap people bought. Oh, yeah—here were those Milky Ways, the full-size ones, every dentist’s dream.

“Here you go.” He dropped one into Adam’s bag. Oh, what the hell. He gave him another.

“Oh, _wow!_ ” Adam looked up with shining eyes.

Ray drew himself up and saluted. “Anything for the RCMP.”

Adam giggled. “I’m not _really_ a Mountie.”

“Boy, you sure coulda fooled me! Too bad Fraser isn’t here to see this; he’d really be impressed.”

Adam grinned up at him. “Are you really a cop?”

“Yes, Adam, I am a cop.”

Adam looked down into the bag, apparently trying equate two really big candy bars with the despised person, “cop.” “Can I look at your badge?”

Ray got out the badge, and then he pulled back his jacket to show the gun in its holster, and then he dangled the handcuffs before Adam’s delighted gaze. He could see that Mountie-worship was well on its way to being replaced by cop-worship. Smart kid.

This time, Adam returned the salute.

“Hey, you just go to those places where you know the people!” Ray called down the hall after the small Chicago Mountie. What the hell Adam’s mother was thinking, letting him out alone like this— “And don’t you eat anything ’till your mother looks at it!”

He watched until the kid was out of sight.

And realization hit him. Uniforms and disguises and trains. And Benny and Victoria.

——

This was a nightmare; he couldn’t get enough breath. People were talking all around him, moving all around him, asking him questions. But none of the words were making sense. He spoke half a dozen languages, and none of these words were making sense.

Red. Everywhere he looked, he saw red. The color of honor, the color of blood. Something about the color hurt his eyes.

“Here, Ben.” She handed him a cup of water.

“I can’t do this.”

“Of course you can!” Her eyes glittered above the rim of her own cup.

“I _can’t!_ ”

“Of _course_ you can! _Here_ we go!”

They stepped into the crowd, merging with the others, moving past a constable who was counting heads and checking a clipboard and looking puzzled. Two Mounties in a sea of Mounties. A sea of red. He felt his stomach knot.

She led the way to seats in one of the passenger cars, a bit apart from the others. He sat next to the window and tried become invisible. _Ray, oh god, Ray_.

“So, we’re stopping at Normal,” she said brightly. “Strange name for a town.” Her voice was brittle as ice.

“It gave the name to the normal school.” Where had those words come from? “Illinois State University was one of the first teacher’s colleges in the States. The phrase ‘normal school’ came from the name of the town.”

“Ben—”

“And it was—a circus town. The railways that intersect there brought a lot of circus people to the town.”

“Ben, relax.”

He looked at her. Thatcher’s uniform suited her, but— He looked away, through the window, at the cityscape passing just outside. Darkness was falling. _Ray_. He—

“Ben.”

He could not look at her. He could not look at anyone in the crowded train car. He heard laughter—someone had made a joke. He looked through the window, at the passing landscape.

“It’ll be all right, Ben. As soon as we’re away from here, it’ll be all right. We’ll be together. Ben, I love you so much.”

He looked at the darkening landscape passing the window.

“Trust me, Ben.”

He caught their reflections in the window glass. Red. So much red.

“You can’t have stopped trusting me, Ben.”

He closed his eyes at that, tried to close his heart at the memory of those words in his own mouth—just days ago, was it? _Trust_. He drew a shaky breath and forced open his eyes, to look past their reflectiions to the darkness outside.

“It’ll be all right.”

Darkness.

“Ben.”

Darkness.

——

The train lurched, and he almost lost his hat. How the hell did Fraser keep this damn thing on?

“Sorry,” he said to the Mountie he’d almost knocked into. _Blend in, Vecchio. You’re undercover. Be Canadian. Apologize all over the place_.

The whole train seemed full to bursting with Mounties, because of course it was. Mounties who were supposed to be there, Mounties who just seemed along for the ride. Tall Mounties, not-so-tall Mounties, old Mounties, young Mounties, white Mounties, black Mounties— He ducked his head as Pangborn went by.

Where do you hide a Mountie? In with a whole lot of other Mounties. And how do you hitch a ride out of Chicago if you don’t want to be spotted and nabbed? Hide inside a uniform most people didn’t look past, with a whole lot of other people wearing the same uniform. Fraser’s single red uniform in the closet where there should have been two, his single Stetson where there should have been two, had told Ray everything.

He drew a deep breath and looked around. Trouble was, all those straight backs, all those broad shoulders, all those trim waists—it was amazing how much all these Mounties looked like Fraser at first glance. Maybe he _should_ have brought Dief along.

Nah, Dief was better off where he was, with Elaine, who’d taken one look at Ray and burst out laughing. He didn’t look _that_ stupid. He was just undercover.

The Mountie dress uniform almost fit; the hat—well, he’d had to stuff some paper in there. Boots were a problem until Ray had thought to talk to Turnbull. Turnbull always seemed a little nervous where Ray was concerned: that stereotype of the gun-toting American poised for a psychotic killing spree seemed lodged in his brain. Still, it had never occurred to Ray that the words, “Hey, Turnbull, I need to borrow a pair of Mountie boots,” when accompanied by a hitch at his slipping holster, would cause the strapping young Mountie to wrestle off his own boots and hand them right over. Poor guy: Ray made plans to be extra nice to him in the future. Dating Frannie, he’d need it.

Mounties here, Mounties there, Mounties, Mounties everywhere. Ray moved down the train car, smiling acknowledgement of the smiling nods of Mounties he didn’t know, searching for that one face that could stop his heart or start it again. He held his arm to hide the holster that should have been empty but which now held his semiautomatic. _You finally got a chance to kill her_ , his father’s voice whispered in the back of his mind. _She deserves it; he deserves it too_. He tried to ignore the voice, but his heart felt like it had frozen. _She deserves it; he deserves it too_. He’d tried to be organized in his search, moving through the empty sleeping cars, the dining car, the first passenger car.

Fraser was in the second. And Ray felt warmth surge through him. Fraser. Sitting by himself, kind of huddled in on himself, staring out the window. _He deserves it_ — Oh, god, Benny, so unhappy. Because he’d done wrong? Because he was leaving Ray?

Ray’s knees were shaking. _He’s miserable because_ — Some voice inside him was trying to find a reason for Benny to be unhappy that didn’t have to do with him betraying Ray, but Ray’s heart wasn’t buying it. Warmth was stealing into it; his arms wanted to wrap themselves around Benny and hold him until the misery was gone. _Geez, Vecchio_ _. You’re such a sap, Vecchio. Oh, Benny_.

Ray paused when he came to Fraser’s row. Should he talk to him? Should he ask Fraser to help him trap the woman Fraser loved? No, but that didn’t mean Ray’s heart wasn’t beating double-time. In the window reflection Fraser’s face looked so tired, his eyes looked so lost. As Ray watched, Fraser seemed to see something reflected in the glass and huddled in on himself even more. _Ah, god, Fraser, what’s she done to you?_ Ray’s heart was melting like snow under a hot sun.

This wasn’t finding him Victoria. Ray walked past, looking at Mountie after Mountie, until he reached the end of the car. He turned for a quick glance back at Fraser before he went to the next car, where there was still no Victoria. And this was the last car.

He went back, looked over at Fraser—who wasn’t there.

Ray’s heart dropped like a stone through water. No Victoria, and now no Fraser, and where were they?

Thumping from above told him. Nobody else seemed to notice, but his end was quiet, and he was listening for something like this. Oh, damn, outside the damn car. He went into the space between cars.

The Stetson got in his way when he tried to shove his way through the little service opening to the outside; and he took it off. And then, before he could think about it and maybe change his mind, he was out and hanging on for dear life. Standing on top of the car was just a lot of fun.

The moon, a couple days past full, rode low in the sky, silver-edging the clouds streaming across the sky. He faced the back of the train. Moonlight, dimness of cloud, then the moon again. Something was ahead of him, on the next car. He eased forward, scrambling to keep his footing when the train hit a rough section of track. Geez, didn’t they _maintain_ these tracks any more?

End of his own car; and, oh boy, that accordion thing that joined the two cars looked none too solid. Jump over it, Vecchio.

Don’t look down. Looking down made him realize how the two cars rocked independently of each other, made him sickeningly aware that he might misjudge the way the next car was moving, land wrong, slide to his death. Just look at that next car and take a deep breath and—

He jumped. Aw gee, aw gee, he was gonna land wrong, the way that next car was swaying, the way—

He landed, overbalanced, fell to one knee and caught himself. His heart was hammering. Ohmigod, he’d done it.

He peered ahead into the darkness. Was that—

Moonlight flooded the landscape. A figure, dark against the gleaming metal of the train, toward the far end of the car. Rising to his feet, Ray scrambled toward it. Fraser? Or Victoria? Was he walking into a trap?

Caution steadied him as he moved along the train car, shuffling to keep his footing on the slick surface. Access to the top of the car lay only at either end. But nobody seemed to be coming up behind him.

The moon emerged from another cloud, and he could see the red-coated figure ahead of him, see the wind whipping the dark hair. Victoria.

So where was Fraser?

Ray glanced behind him. Nothing.

And, ahead, Victoria was reaching out. Something gleamed in her hands. Gun. Aimed at his belly. Oh, how cliche.

He stopped, whirled to look behind him. Nobody. Damn it, where _was_ Fraser? Riding to the rescue, or part of the trap?

Victoria’s gun raised in warning when he went for his own. Ray paused, pulled the handcuffs from his belt instead, raised them so she could see. Victoria laughed.

And behind her a figure was climbing onto the top of the train. Ray felt his heart steady. Fraser. Coming to the rescue.

Ray moved toward Victoria, jingling the cuffs suggestively, holding her attention until Fraser could grab her.

She was shaking her head slowly, smiling over the gun. Oh, yeah, big joke. Just wait ’till Fraser—

Victoria cast a glance behind her, turned smiling toward Ray.

Who stopped as Fraser halted behind Victoria. Looking at the shadowy figure, Ray felt his heart fall inside his chest. Fraser. Ah, god, not riding to the rescue at all. Just some part of a trap that hadn’t worked too well.

Ray was close enough to see that Victoria was smiling more broadly now, smiling with malice. The wind whipped her hair back; her eyes looked huge in a face gleaming against the black hair. Damn, that gun looked natural in her hands.

“So, you’ve finally joined us, detective!” Victoria called.

“No problem!” He held the handcuffs out. “I warmed them up for you! If we hurry, we can get you to Cook County lockup for mac and cheese night.”

“I don’t think so, detective!”

Could he get to his gun before she fired? The tunic felt strange, constricting. He wasn’t so sure he could get the holster unfastened quick enough. _Ah, god, Fraser, help me here_. But Fraser didn’t move. Ray could hear his own hammering heart over the sound of the train.

“I think I have another idea for the handcuffs, detective,” Victoria went on.

He was damned if he was putting them on his own wrists. He dropped them, flinching back when Victoria jerked at the sound. Don’t lose it, lady. Ray flicked a glance at Fraser. No help there, Vecchio.

With his foot, he pushed the handcuffs toward her. “Put ’em on, lady.”

She stood still for a minute and then laughed. “Are you crazy?” she said. “You may not have noticed, detective, but I’m the one with the gun!”

“Put ’em on.”

“I don’t think so!”

“Victoria,” Fraser said.

Instantly, the gun swung up, its muzzle less than a foot away from Ray’s face. And in that heart-halting instant, Ray knew that Victoria had planned for this, that she didn’t care if someone died, that she would use that threat to get exactly what she wanted. The lady would have no trouble also being the tiger.

Benny had frozen behind her, as she must have known he would.

“I’m really sorry this has come down to crude violence, detective,” Victoria said. “But you’re as useful to me dead as you are alive. And with you alive or dead, I’ll still have him.”

He flicked a glance at Benny, but there was no solace there. The lady? The tiger? Which would he be?

“Though, actually, it’ll be tidier if the police find a body,” she went on.

“That’s Fraser’s gun, isn’t it,” Ray said.

She smiled, as if at a bright child. “Yes. It is. The police should find that very interesting. But I need the body somewhere more—noticeable. We’ll wait. Ben, pick up the handcuffs.” Then, when he hesitated, she pressed the muzzle of the gun to Ray’s cheek. “ _Pick_ them _up!_ ”

Fraser obeyed, slowly. The darkness made it impossible to read his face.

“Turn around, detective.”

Should he?

As quick as the thought crossed his mind, the gun swung around to aim at Fraser’s head. “ _Do_ it!”

He froze. If he did, he was dead. But if he didn’t, Fraser would be dead before him; she had the look that told Ray she’d rather kill Fraser than give him up. She wouldn’t hesitate to shoot.

The lady or the tiger? Fraser alive with Victoria or Fraser dead, but Victoria in prison?

He looked at Fraser’s dark shape and knew there was only one answer. Slowly, he turned and put his hands behind him for the cuffs. Fraser alive at any price was the only choice he could make.

The muzzle of the gun chilled the back of his neck. “Put them on him,” Victoria said. And then, “ _Do_ it, Ben! Don’t make me hurry this!”

As he waited for the click of the cuffs, Ray looked out across the prairie night. Silver-edged clouds in the sky; landscape touched with bright moonlight. If he had to pick a night to die, this one wasn’t that bad.

The click of the first cuff seemed loud. He caught his breath, puzzled. Why didn’t he feel it?

The jerk of the gun muzzle told him; he whirled to see Fraser yanking at the cuff on Victoria’s gun hand. The gun clattered onto the top of the train.

Victoria turned, rage and betrayal on her face, and struck out with her free hand, clawing. Fraser flinched back as her fingernails grazed his face, closed his eyes against her raking hand, lost his balance as the train jerked beneath him. Ray reached for her then, but she twisted from his grasp, turning to go after Fraser again.

The train jerked again, and Ray swayed on his feet. Fraser fell hard, slid toward the side of the car.

Victoria fell with him, pulled down by the handcuff he still grasped. Ray dove for her, dodging a kick from her booted foot. He couldn’t dodge the next one; the edge of her heel connected hard with his forehead. Things went out of focus for a minute.

When his eyes cleared, Victoria was struggling with Fraser, kicking at him, hitting him, giving it everything she had. Fraser was slipping closer to the edge.

Ray pulled himself to his knees and lunged for the struggling woman, taking a couple kicks to his shoulders and arms. Things were jerking around; the train seemed to be picking up speed.

And then it happened: struggling on the slippery skin of the railway car, Victoria slid that one extra inch and suddenly was dangling from the side of the car, held by the cuff Fraser still gripped. Fraser slid part way with her, caught a hand on the car’s textured surface, started to slide again. He wasn’t letting go. He wouldn’t let go even if it meant his death.

All this went through Ray’s head in an instant, and he watched one hand reach for Fraser while the other reached for Victoria. For a minute he held both.

Then Fraser pulled himself to safety, out of Ray’s grasp. Together they kept Victoria from falling. But when Ray started to tug on her hand to pull her back up, he realized that Fraser wasn’t helping.

He turned and looked at Fraser, who was gazing down at the struggling woman. Then he looked up, and his eyes locked with Ray’s. A long, silent minute passed.

And Fraser let go.

The sudden increase in weight surprised Ray; he fumbled to recover, dimly aware of Victoria’s shriek. Flattened out on the roof of the train, he held her by the wrist, still looking at Fraser. Fraser drew back. It was Ray’s decision; he was leaving things to Ray.

Dimly aware of Victoria’s shrieked curses, Ray looked deep into Fraser’s eyes, saw the shame and anguish there. He looked down at Victoria, kicking against the side of the train, trying to pull herself to safety.

So easy. It would be so easy just to drop her now, explain how she’d resisted arrest and fell off the train; the handcuffs would back him up. Her struggling was jerking her wrist out of his grasp, bit by bit; in a minute she’d slide free.

He looked down into that beautiful face, snarling curses now, the lady like the savage tiger. It would be so much easier to have her dead and gone from their lives. To just drop her would be so much easier.

 _She deserves it_. So much easier. He looked at Fraser.

And it still wouldn’t be over. Dead, Victoria would be his lost love, the one whom Ray had killed. With Victoria dead, it would never really be over.

He watched his other hand reach down and grab her wrist firmly. And pull her up to safety.

She came up still cursing, still struggling to get away. He jerked her face down more firmly than he needed to, held her down with a knee dropped hard onto her back. Jeez, give it _up!_ He’d just saved her life— _no_ gratitude! He wrenched back her free arm and shifted to cuff it as tightly as he could. He dodged a kick. _Quit_ it!

But she was still struggling, even handcuffed, mouth shrieking curses they probably could hear inside.

“ _Victoria!_ ” The voice was hard as steel.

She turned to look at Fraser. Who gagged her with his handkerchief. Way to go, Fraze.

Surprise had frozen her for a minute; Ray jerked her to her feet. Gee, it was cold up here—nearly November.

A stride away, Fraser slowly stood. He looked at Ray, tentative, searching. Ray looked back.

Oh, Fraser. He had abandoned Ray to jail, had given himself back into Victoria’s hands—and then rescued Ray at the last minute. Ray felt the train vibrating beneath his boots, felt Victoria twisting against his grip, and looked into blue eyes dulled by misery and shame. This was Fraser—his Fraser, still. This was his Mountie, and he couldn’t just let him go.

He stepped back and grabbed Fraser with his free hand, pulling him in for a kiss both punishing and possessive, flavored with passion and anger. He put into it all his rage at being abandoned, all his joy at having found Fraser on the train, all his tenderness at what they’d had together, all his fury that this could happen to them. Fraser’s mouth against his was soft; Fraser’s breath against his cheek was ragged. A damn good kiss; take _that_ , Victoria.

When they pulled out of the kiss, Fraser swayed against him, rocked by the train. They clutched at each other, and their eyes locked. Fraser’s were soft with apology; he flinched back from what he saw in Ray’s. A kiss wasn’t forgiveness.

Ray looked at Victoria, whose eyes sparked fury, and found his mouth quirk in a half-smile. _Damn_ , this felt good.

One of the horse cars seemed their best bet: privacy there. Ray picked up Fraser’s gun and steered his prisoner toward the end of the train, grateful for Fraser’s arm steadying him as the train rattled over a bumpy patch. They worked well together—always had. Be a shame to lose it.

Worked well together getting Victoria down the ladder at the end of the car, too: Fraser going on ahead to open the door, reaching up to take her. She kicked at him, catching him in the leg once, but he didn’t react. He just hauled her into the horse car like she was a sack of grain.

Ray took charge again inside the car, shoving her to thump against the side of an empty stall. She glared at him over the gag. _Don’t tempt me_ , he thought. It was still possible to lose her over the side of some bridge or other.

It was warm inside, the horses a nickering presence in the dimly lit car. Leather stuff swaying from the sides of the car: saddles, harnesses. Riding crop fallen to hay bales stacked against the wall. Harness draped over the side of the empty stall. Straw everywhere, and the smell of horses, of hay. Cozy. He wasn’t in the mood for cozy.

“Ray.”

He whirled on Fraser, who stepped back. “Don’t start, Fraser.”

Fraser’s breathing was ragged. “But, Ray—”

He advanced on Fraser, who stumbled back into the empty stall. “ _Don’t!_ ” Ray hissed. “I _swear_ to god, if I didn’t love you so damn much, I’d take that riding crop and use it on you until you couldn’t stand up.”

Benny looked at his feet. “Understood, Ray.”

Back out of the stall, in time to grab Victoria, who seemed to be anxious to keep an appointment somewhere else. Ray consciously stopped his hand from closing on her hair, lowered it to grab the back of the tunic she was wearing. Geez, lady, just give it up.

He jerked her over to land against a bale of hay. The fury in her eyes could have set the whole place on fire.

Fraser was standing just outside the stall, eyes on Victoria. Ray glanced at him. Nothing in his face: no resentment of the way Ray was manhandling the woman Fraser had run off with. Too bad. A little resentment could have led to something that might have cleared the air. Ray’s hands kept wanting to do something, bruise something. He kept them relaxed, keeping control.

Keep control. Follow procedure. He fumbled for his shield and got out the Miranda card he kept tucked in the pocket. He walked over to Victoria and put his mouth to her ear. Make sure she heard him over the noise of the train.

“Victoria Metcalfe, I’m putting you under arrest for murder, conspiracy to commit murder, and charges to be determined later.” The familiar words were soothing. He took a deep breath. “You have the right to remain silent. If you give up this right, anything you say will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right have an attorney present during questioning. If you so desire but cannot afford one, one will be appointed for you. Do you understand these rights as I have explained them to you?”

He looked at her. She glared at him.

Ray leaned closer. “Do. You. Under. Stand?” He let his face hint at what might happen if she didn’t respond.

She glared; she glared. And then she nodded.

He straightened. Good.

“I wouldn’t give up the right to remain silent, if I were you,” he told her. “Unless you really want to piss me off.”

Fraser was slumped against the side of the empty stall, looking tired, looking empty. Ray watched him. Was this still love he felt? Was it habit? Or was it desperation because Fraser was the only person he really had left? Well, there was Frannie and—maybe—Ma. Someday. But Fraser was— Well, was this still love?

The door from the forward part of the train opened before he had an answer.

Fraser snapped to attention immediately, and Ray found himself echoing the action—sort of. Was it the uniform?

Whatever it was, it seemed to puzzle Pangborn, who stopped in his tracks and looked them all over. A couple younger Mounties gaped behind him.

Two male Mounties alone in the hay with a female Mountie who was obviously bound and gagged. Oh, just a lovely picture.

“Constable?” Pangborn said to no Mountie in particular.

Shield. Shield. Ray got it out, opened it. “Detective Ray Vecchio, sir, Chicago Police Department, 27th Precinct. In pursuit of a fugitive.” His hands went behind him in parade rest; _was_ it the uniform?

Pangborn examined Ray’s ID, studied Ray, studied Victoria, studied Fraser, who was still standing at attention.

“With the aid of Constable Benton Fraser, RCMP,” Ray went on. _Keep quiet, Fraser. Just keep quiet_. “Constable Fraser—kept an eye on the fugitive until—until she could be apprehended.” Okay—Pangborn seemed to be buying it.

“With what is she charged?”

With what— Oh, Sister Mary Thomas would love this guy; he talked like a book. “Homicide.” Ah, _that_ got a reaction. “Dealing in stolen goods.” _Let’s see_ …. “Attempted assault. Attempted fraud. Attempted homicide. Kidnapping. Conspiracy to commit murder. Resisting arrest. Shooting a Canadian wolf.”

Pangborn shot a look at Ray, glowered at Victoria, and handed back Ray’s ID. “I won’t ask if it’s strictly necessary to keep the prisoner gagged.” But he was asking.

Deep breath. Improvise. “The—prisoner seemed to be—overanxious to waive her right to remain silent, sir. I—uh—didn’t think she should be speaking to me without counsel present.” _Because I’d drop her off the side of a cliff_. “Gagging her seemed—prudent.”

“Well, that’s a matter for the American legal system.”

“Yes, sir.”

Pangborn turned to Fraser. “Good work, Constable.”

“Thank you, sir.” Only Ray would hear the note of shame in Fraser’s voice.

“And, Constable, you will see to it that the uniforms are returned in good order.”

“Yes, sir.”

And they were gone.

Ray let his breath out in a whoosh and started to pace off his frustration. He glanced at Fraser. The shame and pain in that face was wrenching. Look at Victoria, instead. Easier on his soul.

She was mouthing the gag, which looked uncomfortable. _Take care of your prisoner, Vecchio_. “If I take out the gag, will you stay quiet?” he asked.

She considered him for a minute and then nodded. When he slipped the gag down over her chin, she made the gag face, working her mouth to get rid of the taste of cotton. He started the pacing again, work off the excess energy, wear out the tingle in his fingers.

“This is police brutality,” Victoria said.

“Hey, lady, I didn’t gag you,” Ray answered. “ _He_ did.” _Come on, lady, start something. I’m ready for you_.

There was the coolness in her eyes that he remembered from the last time: that look that meant she was figuring the angles. _Come on, say it_. It was a relief when she did:

“I’ll have him back.”

“No, you won’t.” Benny, behind him, in a small voice.

“No, you won’t, lady,” Ray said.

But there was that little smirk of triumph on her face. “I did it once; I can do it again.”

“No, you won’t.” He stopped a few inches in front of her, between her and Fraser, and gave her a glimpse of that violent place inside him. She took a hard breath. “No,” he said. “You won’t.”

Her eyes went to Fraser, softness and pleading coming into them. But when Ray turned to look, Fraser was just studying her like she was something beautiful he’d made that got ruined.

“It’s not gonna happen,” Ray said to her. “He made a choice up there on that train, and it wasn’t you.”

She lifted her chin, defiance on her face. “He made a choice in Chicago, and it wasn’t _you_.”

A hit. And she knew it. He stood very still until his breathing was back under control, until he thought he could speak without using his fists.

“He’s chosen me a lot more times than that, lady. A _lot_ more. And those choices on top of the train just seal it.” He leaned close. “He was gonna let me drop you up there.” Her face tightened. “He let go of you. Remember?”

Oh, yeah—she remembered. He saw it in her eyes. “You lost, lady.”

Her eyes flickered to Fraser, who wasn’t giving her any help. Hate-filled, they went back to Ray. Her mouth started to move.

“Don’t say it,” he said, suddenly tired, and he put the gag back in her mouth.

Now, stash her someplace where she couldn’t get loose—someplace where she wouldn’t be in the way. Someplace he wouldn’t have to look at her much. He took her arm and pushed her into a stall with some sacks of feed. There. Now, go pace in front of Fraser.

“Ray, I—”

The riding crop was in his hand before he even knew he reached for it. And Fraser was looking startled.

Ray’s grip tightened, tightened.

And then the shame in Fraser’s face seemed to take over; and Ray’s mouth dried as he saw Fraser’s fumbling hands undo the collar of his tunic, move on to the first button, to the next, reach to his shoulder to undo the lanyard and holster strap.

Oh, god. Drop it, Vecchio. Drop it. Before he gets that tunic off. Drop it. Drop the damn thing _now_.

He felt the riding crop hit his foot, but his hand wouldn’t relax. Something inside him seemed to be trying to tear its way out.

He made a noise, grabbed Fraser’s hands to stop them on the next button. With more force than he needed, he pushed the Mountie against the wall inside the empty stall. He focused on his shaking hands fumbling with the buttons on Fraser’s tunic, working their way up as he refastened it.

“Ray.” It was barely a whisper.

“Just—stop.” Thank god Fraser stopped.

A silence here, pressed against yielding body, feeling its sweet warmth. He watched the blue eyes watching him and found himself thinking, _This is a very handsome man. I like his eyes; you can tell he’s smart and he’s kind. I like the way he holds himself. This guy could be a good friend; I could like him a lot—maybe even love him. What is his name?_

Then he took a deep breath and the world came rushing back. “Benny.”

Fraser’s breathing was shaky. “I’m sorry.”

God, he was tired. “Yeah, I know. We’re all sorry.” He had started to turn when,

“You came for me,” Fraser said in a little voice.

Ray wheeled back around. “Of course I did. What did you expect?”

What Fraser expected was evident in his eyes: what Fraser expected was that Ray would feel so betrayed he’d just turn his back on him. Ray’s heart turned over inside him; and at that moment he felt the rage regaining strength.

“I came after Victoria, sure,” he said. “Like I told Pangborn, pursuing a fugitive. But, Benny, I’d go to the ends of the earth to drag you back to my bed.” Ah, the softness that came into Fraser’s eyes at that. “More important, I’d follow you two through the gates of Hell to get you out of her clutches. Even if you decided you didn’t love me, I’d hunt for you. Fight her for you. That woman is bad news for you.” _Ah, god, Fraser, I love you so much_. “She sucks your self-respect right out of you like a vampire; look at what she’s made you do. You’ve lied; you’ve dealt with criminals; you’ve betrayed _me_.” _Don’t look at me like that; I can’t stand love from you right now_. “Look at how she’s disgraced your uniform, making you steal Thatcher’s for her to parade around in like— Making you ashamed in your own uniform; _I_ saw how you looked out there with the others. _Nobody_ has the right to do that to you.” _Ah, god, I love you, but if you touch me right now, I’ll hurt you. I’ll hurt you bad_. “Look at what you almost just did; you were ready to let me beat you half to death, you felt so bad. Do you think while I had breath in my body, I’d let you be with somebody who could do that to you? Not on your life, buster!”

He turned on his heel and strode away to pace, pace between the rows of horses. Just stay away from Fraser, away from the shame and love in Fraser’s eyes. Too much emotion, and he wasn’t dealing with emotion so well right now. The urge to hurt mingled with the urge to strip Fraser and hump him in the empty stall—make him howl in ecstasy—though whether that urge was love or vengeance Ray didn’t know. Just pace, Vecchio. Pace.

Victoria glaring hate at one end of the car; Fraser looking love at the other. He paced; he paced. He paced between the fallen angel of dishonor and death, and the sweet, betraying angel of love, until the miles had passed and any choice was out of his hands.

——

“It seemed—prudent.”

Standing here, watching the exchange, sounds seemed out of focus, words an aural blur he had to concentrate on to understand. All but Ray’s; those were clear. A trick of acoustics?

“Leftenant,” Fraser offered, “ _I_ actually gagged the prisoner.”

Ray glancing at him, the only clear figure in a sea of blurred shapes. Ray’s breathing so regular that Fraser could tell he was controlling it; Ray’s heart racing, keeping pace with Fraser’s.

What was the leftenant asking?

“Constable Fraser thought it would be—prudent.” Ray.

“The prisoner seemed—too eager to waive her right to silence, sir,” Fraser said. Ray shifting slightly, boot grating on the linoleum. “I felt it—prudent that she not—”

Ray’s eyebrows arching at something he was hearing; a smile relaxing his face. Behind his back, right hand clenching and unclenching. “Anything for U.S./Canada relations, sir.” The scent of his skin, mixed with the smell of horses. “I’m sure Constable Fraser is as gratified at the outcome as I am.” Flash of mingled love and sadness in a face bathed by moonlight.

Fraser felt his face smile. “Yes, Leftenant.” Memory of the riding crop clenched in Ray’s right hand. “Yes.” The ghost of the taste of Ray’s kiss. “Yes, Leftenant. Thank you kindly.”

Ray straightening, preparatory to turning. “Thank you, Lieutenant.” Smudges under the hazel eyes. “Of course, sir.” Wide smile crinkling the corners of his eyes; hidden fist clenched tight. “I’ll keep that in mind, sir. Good night.”

Smile at the leftenant; follow the red uniform out of the office, down the hall, down the stairs. Both hands fists at Ray’s sides. Follow him. White wolf a ghost-shadow at his heels. Follow. Fraser’s heart seemed loud enough to wake all Chicago.

A cold wind blew outside the station house—the first cold wind of November. It seemed to cut through the wool serge and stab him like an ice-cold knife. Ray’s pace quickened; Fraser stumbled to keep up. Something inside him was—seemed—

Ray jerking open the passenger’s door of the Buick. “Get in.” Contemptuous. He was halfway around the automobile before Fraser caught the door for Diefenbaker and then slid into the passenger’s seat. Something inside him seemed to be cracking, breaking up. He could not seem to catch his breath.

The slam of Ray’s door was as crisp as the snap of a whip. Something inside him— The riding crop in Ray’s hand; the feel of Ray’s lips claiming him. The Buick’s heater pushed out cold air; Fraser’s hands shook in its blast. But he could not catch his breath, could not catch his breath, could not catch his breath.

He was drowning in icy waters with no one to rescue him, and he could not catch his breath.

——

A scratch at the wolf’s ears, a glance over at Fraser, who was shaking like he’d never felt cold before. A little Chicago wind; you’d think a Mountie would be able to handle it. _Jesus, Fraser, I love you_. Mr. Smooth inside the station house, talking to the lieutenant, getting Ray out of the jam he was in for use of excessive force because of that damned gag; now look at him. _Ah, geez, Benny, don’t let this be it for us_. Face frozen in misery. Hands shaking in the heater’s blast.

Ray paused, hand poised to throw the Riv into drive. Geez, he was tired of being angry; he was tired of feeling hurt. He wanted something: comfort, some feeling that it wasn’t over. Something that felt normal.

“You know,” he said, “it’s gotten so that when you’re in the car I just can’t drive any more unless you’ve got your hand right _there_.” He pointed to his right thigh.

Fraser hesitated. “I don’t deserve it,” he said faintly.

“Maybe not, but I do—especially for keeping that bitch out of the morgue. So would you?”

A pause; then Fraser reached out and placed a warm, broad hand just where Ray had pointed.

“Oh, yeah—that’s just it,” Ray breathed. And it _was_ it; it was one of the things he’d ached for, one of those little dumb things you missed when you didn’t get it. His mouth relaxed into a smile. Things were starting to feel back to normal. They _weren’t_ normal, but they were starting to feel that way.

He glanced over at Fraser, who was looking shyly at him; the Mountie turned quickly to stare out the passenger’s window, his free hand wiping quickly at his eyes.

They rode in silence for a minute.

“I betrayed you.” Fraser’s voice was shaky.

“Look, you did the best you could.” His voice sounded harsh to him; did it sound harsh to Fraser? He didn’t want to sound vindictive—or did he?

“I shouldn’t have given up; or I should have gotten myself arrested, like—”

“Yeah, and I’d still be in jail: do you know how many guys there I’d’ve killed for looking at you wrong?”

“I can defend my _self_ , Ray.” Now, _that_ sounded like the old Mountie.

“Yeah, you can defend yourself. I _know_ you can defend yourself. I been watching you defend yourself for the last two-three years. Except where dark-haired women are involved, you can defend yourself really well. But, see, somebody even _thinks_ about trying to hurt you, I got to rip their guts out. Just the way I’m built.”

A pause. “But, mostly, I shouldn’t have gone with—with _her_.” Fraser whispered so low, his words were barely audible.

 _That_ was the gist of it; _that_ was the thing that mattered. _That_ was what Ray’s heart had been screaming with every beat since he’d realized Fraser was gone.

“Well, she’s really something—our Victoria. I probably would’ve gone with her myself.”

“No, you wouldn’t.”

“Well, no, I wouldn’t. But I’d’ve _thought_ about it.”

Would he really? Would he have thought about going away with somebody and leaving Fraser? If it was Irene? Oh, god, he hoped the answer would have been “no.” Benny deserved better than the taste of ashes in his mouth.

“No, you _wouldn’t_ , Ray,” Fraser said gently, sadly.

Ray pulled the Riv into its usual spot near the apartment and killed the engine. “No, I wouldn’t, Benny,” he agreed, facing Fraser squarely.

They stared at each other in the darkness. Then Ray grabbed Fraser’s jaw and pulled him closer. And took firm possession of Fraser’s mouth with his own, crushing his lips against the Mountie’s in a way that made quite clear who he belonged to.

When they pulled out of the kiss, Fraser was shaking. But Ray’s mind was suddenly clear. They were going to get through this; it wasn’t going to be fun, but they were going to get through this tonight, get it all out and talked about tonight.

Or it was over.

It took practically no time to get to the apartment: probably something to do with how Ray kept his hand at Fraser’s back, moving him right along.

That dark place in Ray’s soul was beckoning him; he clenched his fist against the urge to hurt where he’d loved, to just strip Benny and use him, show him who was boss, show him what it felt like to be so hurt, use a belt on him, punish him. Benny must have sensed that urge, because he didn’t even look around, didn’t protest as he was pushed into the apartment.

Ray caught the door just as he was about to slam it, and closed it gently. He pressed his forehead to the door for a minute, palms caressing the wood, closing the door also on that place inside him, locking it tight before he turned. No more urge. It was still there, just a step out of reach, but it didn’t possess him.

He looked at Benny, who was looking back with that straight-backed, stiff-upper-lipped Mountie-sentry look.

Then Ray turned back again and opened the door at the patient scratching on the other side. “Sorry, Dief,” he said as the wolf came in. High drama with equal parts of comedy: story of his life.

When Ray turned, Fraser was moving around in the kitchen, putting out food for Dief. “His water dish is out on the fire escape,” Ray said. Feed the wolf, water the wolf, and hump the memory of Victoria out of the Mountie. Or something. Just another evening on West Racine.

Fraser was shaking again; Ray took the water dish from him and filled it himself, setting it down carefully on the floor. “You all set there?” he said to Dief. “You got everything you need, there? Another roll? A mint, maybe?”

Sarcasm only went so far when it was aimed at the wrong animal. Fraser had gone into the dining area, to the window there, a dim form against the window frame, as far from the bed as he could get.

Ray looked around the apartment. Lights on? Lights off? He found the lantern and lit it, heart lifting at the light’s cozy glow. Oh, yes, perfect lighting was very important at the sour end of a relationship.

He carried the lantern into the dining area. Fraser had his arms wrapped around himself, shivering like he was cold. Ray set the lamp on the table and sat down, studying Fraser’s reflection in the dark window as Fraser studied his. Oh, geez, he wanted to just hug Fraser, hold him, have it over, have it never have happened. God, he was tired.

Silence, broken by the sputtering of the lamp, by Dief crunching on dog biscuits.

“I don’t ever want to feel as bad as I have felt for the last couple weeks,” Ray finally said. Oh, geez, where had that quaver in his voice come from? Fraser folded in on himself, face twisted in anguish. “And I don’t ever want to feel as alone as I felt when you left me.”

Fraser was swallowing tears; Ray had seen that look before. “I—” He turned to face Ray, arms folded around himself, tears spilling down his cheeks. “—Everything I did just didn’t seem to work. I just couldn’t— Everything was just getting worse and worse. It was like some nightmare that just kept going on and on and on.” He wiped his face with his hands.

“So you left and went with _her_.” Oh, this had to be what the knife felt like when it slid into your heart.

And that had to be what it looked like: Fraser shaking, sliding down the wall to sit on the floor, face stiff with pain. “She said if I did she’d—call the officials, get you out—”

“Oh, we been here before—Victoria and her phone calls! She promised last time she wouldn’t call IA if you did what she asked, and we both know how _that_ came out!”

“I would have _made_ her call.”

Ray believed him—it shone in his eyes. And Benny really believed that that phone call would have made a difference, gotten Ray out of jail. Forgetting that honesty had never been Victoria’s strong suit, that she would have found some way to cancel out what she’d done and just shove the knife in deeper, twist it. Forgetting all that. Or ignoring it.

“But that’s not the only reason,” Ray said sadly.

Shame crossed Fraser’s face. He looked at the floor.

“Did you sleep with her?” Ray asked.

“Not—not really.”

“How do you not really sleep with somebody? Either you fucked her or you didn’t!”

“I—she—tried. It didn’t—” Amazing how red Fraser’s face could get.

Ray’s bark of a laugh seemed to echo in the room. Ah, god, life could be just plain ridiculous sometimes! He found himself leaning back, laughing gently.

“Apparently, my _body_ was—more loyal than—”

“I get the picture. I just hope to god you changed the sheets.”

He looked down at Fraser looking up at him, huddled so alone there by the wall. God, he was tired. Tired of feeling bad, tired of Victoria— He wanted to be held, to have those strong arms wrapped around him, holding him warm and safe. He wanted it over, behind them.

Ray slid off the chair and dropped to his knees in front of Fraser, close enough that Fraser couldn’t move away. Something was wrong in his chest; it all hurt.

“You hurt me more than I could possibly have imagined I could be hurt,” he said quietly. The blue eyes filled with tears again but held his. “You hurt me more than I ever thought anybody could ever hurt another human being.” Fraser’s soft mouth tightened; he swallowed hard. “But something won’t let me let you go. Do you _want_ to go?”

“No.” The voice was as tiny as the word.

“Are you _sure?_ Because I gotta know, Benny. I gave up everything for you. If you don’t want what I got for you, you just say it. We’ll end this.”

“No!” The tears were falling now, dripping unheeded off Fraser’s chin. Ah, god, his own eyes were blurring.

“I want you, Benny. God—I _need_ you, Benny! I have never needed anybody as much as I need you; you’re my only chance at happiness.” Something crawled down his cheek; he brushed at it, but it wasn’t a fly. “You’re the only reason I breathe; you’re the reason my heart beats. Oh, god, Benny, even when you were twisting the knife, even when you were going off with _her_ , if you were alive, that was all I asked. That was all I wanted: you alive. Even if you were with her.” He brushed more of the not-flies off his cheeks.

“Ray.” A whisper.

They were close enough to breathe each other’s breath, close enough to hear each other’s hearts.

“You alive is all I ask,” Ray went on. “You don’t have to be with me—you can be with—” He gestured to include the universe. “But I gotta know. I gotta be sure this is what you want. I gotta be certain you won’t break my heart again. She’s still alive, Benny; if she’s what you want, you just let me know. If there’s somebody else you think you want, you just say the word.” His hands had found the wall on either side of Fraser’s head.

“Ray.” Whispered.

Something was dripping onto his knees: Fraser’s tears or his, he wasn’t sure. “Just answer me: is this what you really, really want. Because I gotta know. Is it? Is it, Benny? Is it?”

“Yes.” Passion in a whisper; tenderness in a tear-filled gaze.

“You’re really sure.”

“Yes.”

“Then I think you better kiss me.”

Oh, this was the sweetness of a reprieve from death; this tear-flavored kiss held the secret at the heart of the universe; for this empires went to war. Ray gave himself to the heat of Benny’s mouth, to the sound of his blood singing in his ears, to the throb of a heart suddenly alive again. Benny, oh, Benny, a mouth sweet as wine, skin soft as a sun-warmed peach, heart thundering like an echo of his own. Oh, Benny, the roof of your mouth is like honey, and your heart is loud as trumpets in my ears. Benny, I would sack cities for you, die sweet if your name was my last breath.

A snuffle and a cold, wet nose on his cheek jerked him out of the kiss.

They were halfway to horizontal, Benny’s head cradled in his two hands. Dief woofed happily into Ray’s face; he’d been eating dog food. Benny started to laugh.

Ah, god, this was his life: grand passion punctuated by low comedy. Ray laughed, dropping Benny, sobbing for breath. Laughing was, well, good for you, wasn’t it? At least it felt that way. This might be a little too much, though. He crawled to sit against the wall, feeling his way: he was laughing so hard his eyes were squeezed shut. He sat there and gave himself up to hysterical laughter, wiping tears, fighting for breath.

And, ah, geez, every minute he felt better, cleaner, clearer of everything that had happened. He felt his heart cleansing itself of jail, of Victoria, of Benny’s abandonment. When he finally came out of it, he felt as clear and strong as if the whole thing hadn’t happened.

Dief had lain down across Ray’s shins. Geez, that wolf was heavy. He reached over to ruffle Dief’s fur. Fraser leaned back against the wall beside him, shoulder to shoulder. From where they sat, Ray could see the end of the bed; Fraser seemed to be staring at it.

“I think—” Fraser cleared his throat. “I think I couldn’t believe I could be so _wrong_ about a person I—someone I—loved.”

“And she was your first real love.” This was okay; he could handle this.

Fraser’s face twisted with unshed tears. “Yes.”

Ray reached up and gentled the back of Fraser’s neck. “The first is always the toughest to get over. It’s the one that comes right through the door of your heart, before you even know how to keep it out. Somebody like our Victoria can do a lot of damage, especially to somebody like you, who just hands his heart right over to the one he loves.” The tears were glistening on Fraser’s cheeks now; he had his arms wrapped around his middle, and his fists were curling and uncurling at his sides. But he was listening. “And you are the essence of loyalty to love. You are the most passionate person I’ve ever met. Really.” He leaned close to Benny’s ear to murmur, “I have the love bites to prove it.”

Fraser laughed weakly, brightening under the tears for a warm instant. Ray felt his heart soften like hot caramel. They could do this. It felt like having a heart operation without anesthesia, but they could do this.

“I couldn’t have loved you without that loyalty and passion, without that feeling that you were all mine. That kind of—abandoning yourself to love isn’t something you meet all the time in another person. Somebody who does that should be cherished, not used, like—” Oh, he couldn’t say her name any more; the very syllables made him sick. He cradled Fraser’s tear-slick cheek in the palm of his hand.

“I just—I just don’t know how I’ll ever— _forgive_ myself.” Benny’s eyes were filled with exhaustion and pain. He closed them, taking a shuddering breath. And then he settled himself on the floor like a tired child, head on Ray’s thigh, curled up and holding himself like he was cold.

Ray looked down, listening to the shuddering breathing, watching the clench of fists against a coldness he could only imagine, running his hand over cheek, neck, shoulder, back, fingering hair, smoothing a thumb over the pain-furrowed forehead. His heart felt like raw hamburger. Some things weren’t meant to happen to a heart like Benny’s; but he no longer had the energy to get up a good fury against that woman. Things just happened, whether they were supposed to or not. People did things to other people. He stroked and stroked, until the shuddering sighs were quieter.

Then he leaned down and placed his lips on Fraser’s, gently, persuasively, emphatically. Fraser gave a kind of sob and grabbed the back of Ray’s neck, deepening the kiss. It tasted of Fraser and of tears and of sadness—and of passion and of love and of hope.

When they broke from the kiss, they stared at each other, breathing hard. Benny’s eyes were swollen and the tears had dried on his face, still etched with pain. But the shame was gone and the first anguish had faded. They could do this.

Ray smiled and watched the sweet mouth curve. He bent for another kiss and felt Fraser’s hand undo the collar on Ray’s tunic.

“Oh, Fraser. If _I_ can forgive you, can’t you forgive yourself? If I can love you so much, can’t you forgive yourself?”

Fraser was getting that teary look again. Well, just kiss it away, Benny undoing a tunic button, then another and sliding his hand inside to stroke the undertunic. At the end of the kiss, Benny struggled up to sit facing Ray, leaning on one hand on the floor between Ray’s thighs.

“I don’t know if I really—deserve—”

“Oh, we’re not going _there!_ ” Ray broke in. “No _way_ we’re going _there_. What _is_ this, some sort of Mountie masochism? Some sort of Canadian thing? The real reason all you guys stick around up there in the ice and snow? You don’t deserve any better?” Benny was smiling weakly back at him now, just as he’d hoped. Ray’s heart flipped over. Oh, Benny.

“You deserve, you big goombah,” Ray went on. “You _deserve_. You deserve the best, which in this case is a Chicago cop with not a whole lot of hair, which is _good_ because, see, it’s a sign of virility.” Oh, look at Benny laughing. “And, see, I got this _other_ physical attribute that makes up for anything I may lack in the looks department, because, after all, ‘Italian’ don’t rhyme with ‘stallion’ for nothing.”

Laughter and a long kiss, another tunic button undone.

“Benny, if I love you, you deserve to forgive yourself. And I love you. I love you awful.” Could he ever stop looking into those tentative, loving eyes? God, he was tired. “Take me to bed, Benny. Make me forget everything that’s happened, make me forget that woman ever existed. Burn the memory out of both of us; let’s just burn the house down and start from scratch. Show me how much you love me. Show me how much you’re willing to love me forever.”

A pause between two breaths, between two heartbeats.

“Yes, Ray,” Fraser breathed.

Their mouths met, tender, exploring. Ah, just like a first kiss. Wonderful.

That flick of tongue over lower lip when Benny pulled away. Shy smile with a hint of spice. “Shall we make love on the table?”

The ta— Oh, yeah, that first time, that poker game. Ray grinned at him. “Oh, you _liked_ that, didn’t you?” Oh, yeah, Benny really _had_.

Benny was grinning. “Oh, _yes_ , Ray. I just wish I’d known what I know now. I just wish I’d known then how much I love you.” Oh, _that_ was the old Fraser: the fire in those blue eyes, the throaty passion in that voice. And _that_ was the effect of the old Fraser: that fire igniting in Ray’s groin, the sudden struggle to get enough breath.

Take it slow; make it linger. Suck that lower lip into your mouth, run your tongue over it before letting go to breathe. Another tunic button undone.

“Table tomorrow,” Ray said. “Bed tonight.” Whisper of Fraser’s breath on his face.

“Promise?”

“ _Oh_ , yeah.”

Fraser leaning in, mouth fitting to his, pushing Ray’s head back against the wall—a good, solid, loving kiss during which Fraser’s hands were busy with buttons and buckles and straps.

“You seem real interested in getting this tunic off me,” Ray teased gently when he could breathe again.

“Well, actually, Ray, as much as I hate to mention it—red really doesn’t suit you at all.” Wide Mountie eyes, with a touch of laughter.

Ray laughed. No “Red suits you” for poor Vecchio. “Then you better get this tunic off me pretty damn quick,” he said.

“Of course, Ray.”

“But first—could you get the wolf off my legs before I’m crippled for life?”

——

Shoo Diefenbaker off Ray’s legs, kneel to undo the knots Ray had tied in the boot laces—whose boots were these? Turnbull’s? How had Ray gotten Turnbull’s—never mind. Fraser would have to polish them tomorrow morning, get the wolf hairs off—oooh, that was a nasty scuff in the leather.

Hands busy with the laces, he looked at Ray. Pale, forehead bruised, eyes puffy with exhaustion and emotion. But love in that face that still shamed Fraser to contemplate. He bent to his work, easing off the boots, the thick socks: Turnbull’s feet were larger than Ray’s, which negated that saying about how the size of a man’s feet reflected the size of his—well, probably. Unlikely that _any_ one was larger in that regard than Ray.

Fraser warmed his hands to rub the bony feet. Ray’s ecstatic groan was almost erotic, and happiness flooded through Fraser at giving such pleasure to the man he loved so dearly. He shifted to take Ray’s feet onto his lap, undoing his tunic at the waist to tuck one of Ray’s feet in, warming against his belly, while he worked on the other.

“What is this, some kind of Canadian foreplay?” Ray’s voice sounded sleepy with pleasure.

“Yes, in fact. Though I suppose it’s a kind of foreplay in _every_ country where the nights get cold.” Do the other foot now.

“Well, it’s _definitely_ gonna catch on in America, the way you do it.” That smile. Those loving hazel eyes.

Wolf nose cold against Fraser’s cheek, and Ray’s laugh.

“Diefenbaker,” Fraser said in exasperation. “Yes, I love you, too, but you are going to have to go outside.”

He escorted the wolf outside and paused to ruffle his fur. He’d left not only Ray, but— Fraser took the wolf’s muzzle in his hand, enunciating so the wolf could read his lips with no trouble. “I’m glad Ray found me. I’m sorry I left you. I’ll—I’ll never do it again.” Never.

Seemingly satisfied, the wolf sank to the floor with a patient sigh.

When Fraser went back inside, Ray was sitting on the side of the bed; the lantern had replaced the lamp on the bedside table. He looked up, and Fraser’s heart smote him at the exhaustion and tenderness in the gaze.

Wash his hands before he put them on Ray again; his face felt stiff with dried tears. He rinsed a wash cloth in warm water and bathed his face, rinsed it again and carried it over to Ray.

“ _Oh_ , that feels good.” Ray’s face, shining from being bathed with the cloth, smiling up at him. “What is this, some kind of Mountie foreplay?”

“You _know_ it is.” Smile down at him, use the warm cloth to massage the back of his neck, feel the pleasured groan feed the fire in your groin.

“Oh, god, I _dreamed_ of this.” Ray’s shuddering breath made Fraser catch his own. “Not _this_ exactly, but—” He was shivering.

Fraser cradled the bristly head to him, gentling the back of Ray’s neck. His lips found Ray’s bald spot, the edge of Ray’s ear. Love flooded him. Ray, alone in jail, dreaming of tenderness. He kissed Ray’s cheek, stroking Ray’s spine. Tenderness—he would get it. He kissed the other cheek. Fraser would build a shelter of tenderness and love, weave safety around him like a cloak, pleasure him until even the memory of pain had been drained.

He knelt and kissed Ray’s mouth, offering his lips, his tongue. Ray’s breathing deepened; his hands were on Fraser’s shoulders, but Fraser barely felt them. Feel them later; catch his pleasure as he could, later.

Deepen the kiss until Ray is gasping. His eyes were closed when Fraser pulled away; a half-smile brightened his flushed face. Fraser caressed Ray’s head with his hands as he caressed his cheek with his lips; Ray’s breath came in stitches in his ear. Fraser’s heart seemed to beat in time with those gasps.

Oh, the delight on Ray’s face, glowing in the lamplight! Eyes crinkling as Fraser smiled: smiles matching smiles, heartbeats in rhythm, ragged sighs echoing.

Ray leaned for a kiss that ignited Fraser’s soul.

His mouth moved across Ray’s face, down the side of that long neck. Oh, impossible to stay distant, impossible to ignore the fire that broke from him now. His hands were engaged in unclothing the long, sweet body, baring the sloping shoulders and the wiry arms to be caressed with his mouth, the nipples to be sucked into a deeper rosiness, the furry belly to be tongued. The skin of Ray’s belly throbbed with the beat of his heart.

Hands skimming the back of his neck, cradling his cheek. He looked up into glowing hazel eyes, at a red mouth slack with desire. Kiss the mouth.

And run hands down the heaving sides, to a waistband that seemed to come open effortlessly. Unzip the jodhpurs.

And pause to explore with a thirsting tongue a mouth sweeter than sugar. Listen to the gasp as your hand dips under the waistband of the briefs, fingers tangling themselves in crisp pubic hair, finding the base of a straining penis.

Ray’s mouth on the rim of Fraser’s ear, those sobbing breaths as Fraser explored the cleavage of his buttocks, the firm roundness of that trim bottom. His thighs clamped Fraser tight between them.

Fraser cupped Ray’s buttocks—skin soft as a peach. A groan in his ear; fingers clutching him. Ray shifting as Fraser slid both waistbands down, over his buttocks, down the strong legs, to be kicked across the floor.

Strong thighs with skin like silk. Fraser’s tongue slid up the thighs to the tight scrotum as his ears revelled in the gasp that was half joy and half desire. His fingers fumbled for the cooling washcloth; Ray jumped when he used it on his penis.

Tip of tongue exploring the slit at the end of the hot penis. Ray’s fingers tightened in Fraser’s hair. Slowly, Fraser worked his way down the shaft, Ray’s every heartbeat magnified against his tongue.

Dimly he heard ragged groaning; Ray’s fingers gripped the back of his neck. He clutched the hard buttocks, pulling them to the edge of the bed in his eagerness. More. He wanted more; he wanted it all.

He sucked gently, repressing any urge to gag, until his mouth could hold no more. Tongue stroking. The groaning maddened him. His penis seemed to throb in time with Ray’s heartbeat. He tasted salt.

“Ah, _god_ , Benny!” Ray’s hips were twitching. “Oh, Fraser, oh god Fraser. _Benny_.”

Suck gently. Fraser slid his tongue around Ray’s penis, flicking it across the searing-hot skin as best he could, those little flicks that made Ray tremble and gasp.

Slow. Make it last; draw all possible pleasure out of the receptive body. Withdraw, sucking the whole way, tonguing the hot veins, the generous crown, the weeping tip. Kiss the scrotum.

Fraser lifted his mouth to Ray’s, sucking the lower lip into his mouth. Ray’s hands clutched at his tunic. Fraser slid his lips over the soft cheek.

Fingertips gentle on either side of his face; and he opened his eyes to hazel eyes soft with passion, a face flushed with love. They stared at each other for a long moment.

Undress. Ray’s eyes followed him as Fraser stood and began to undress himself. Standing between Ray’s knees, stripping himself and dropping the garments on the floor. Ray’s gaze was hot as the sun; Fraser warmed himself in that heat, let it stoke the fire inside him, helpless to look away as he dropped lanyard and holster and belt and tunic and undertunic and undershirt.

Then Ray leaned forward and tugged at the knots on Fraser’s bootlaces, his head bowed. The scar on his shoulder looked deep in the flickering lamp light. Fraser’s shaking hands touched it; his lips kissed the back of Ray’s neck as Ray fumbled with the knots, loosened the bootlaces, smoothed his hands up the trembling thighs. Off with the boots, the socks; and their hands met to slide off the rest of Fraser’s clothes.

Naked. Naked before Ray; naked _for_ Ray. No light in the room but that passionate gaze, no sound but that ragged breathing, no focus but that body trembling for completion. Ray opened his arms.

And Fraser was in them, mouth on mouth, heart on heart, hips moving against moving hips. On the bed, stretched on the bed, hands searing Fraser’s skin, mouth murmuring into his ear words he could not understand but with his thundering heart.

His own mouth skimming the musky sweetness of throat, of belly, of thigh, of fingers, spilling words of love and betrayal, of passion and forgiveness, of the salt of sweat and the texture of scrotum, of the apple-sweet breath of the beloved and the honey taste of his mouth, of the heat of passion turning all else in his own heart to ash.

Fraser’s hands roamed as they willed, stoking the fire in his own groin; his penis skimmed the satin skin of Ray’s taut belly. Ray’s hands clutched his buttocks; Ray’s tongue laved his throat.

Fraser fumbled; found what he was seeking. On his knees over Ray’s hips, he smiled at the flushed face on the pillow as he opened the wrapper; slid his thumb down Ray’s penis as he snugged on the condom. Ray’s hand reached out, clasped Fraser’s penis, and shook his head; Fraser dropped the other condom.

Oh, that avid gaze as Fraser annointed himself with the icy jelly. Those juddering breaths as he lowered himself as slowly as he could, again and again onto his own finger, two fingers, three. Ray’s hips raised.

Fraser reached; he guided. And, oh, he was filling himself with that beautiful penis, completing himself with its throbbing bulk. His hips moved until he could hold no more; he paused at the ecstasy, watched the strained beauty of Ray’s face as Fraser’s hips began their rhythm.

Ray’s hands reached for him. Fraser’s mouth drew him forward as far as he could reach, to taste that smooth forehead, those flushed cheeks; Ray’s mouth on Fraser’s face was as avid as his hands on Fraser’s penis, stroking, stroking. Ray’s hands. Ray’s mouth. Ray.

Oh, he was nothing; he was everything. He was filling and being filled, kissing and being kissed; he was heartbeat and deepening groan, mouth that spoke one name over and over because it was the sweetest word he knew.

Breath in his ear, rasping, “ _Benny Benny Benny_.” Hand pumping faster and faster. Hips beneath his hastening, hastening.

And his own hips and his own breath and his own voice quickened with them; he rode faster, he rode harder, catching up with his heartbeat, catching up with those thrusts, riding hard, riding fast, catching up, riding harder, catching up, catching up, catching up up up up—

He felt, inside him, Ray’s penis thrust once, hard; Ray’s hand clutched his thigh. A half-wordless cry that speeded his riding.

—and—he—was—

White-hot explosion that erased time. Dimly, his voice cried a name. Wetness poured from him.

And silence, but for tangled heartbeats.

Trembling. He was trembling. Fraser slumped forward, feeling Ray’s penis slip from his body, feeling the pang of sadness he always knew at that loss of connection.

His mouth sought the sweat-sheened face; his hands found the back of the sweat-slick neck. He stretched out beside Ray, gathering him close.

“Oh, _Benny_.”

The murmured words filled his heart. He was empty; the explosion had burned to ashes all he had been. Burn the house down, indeed.

He smiled as Ray’s lips drank the salt from the skin of his throat, as Ray’s hands cleaned him with the cold washcloth. He hooked the blanket with a foot and pulled it over them, reached to turn off the lantern. Ray’s arms around him were a wall of safety and love. Fraser tucked the blanket around them and settled down to listen to the beating of Ray’s heart.

Floating. They were floating together. Nothing existed beyond their embrace. Their heartbeats gradually slowed as one.

“Well, _I_ feel better,” Ray murmured at last.

Fraser chuckled quietly and opened his eyes. The waning moon shone through the window. He watched it dreamily. Safe. Ray was safe. He was here, and he was loved, and he was warm and safe in Fraser’s arms. Every muscle in Fraser’s body seemed to have relaxed.

They would start anew.

“Did you know, Ray,” Fraser said, “that the first of November was the first day of the Celtic year?”

“I did not know that.” Sleepy voice, sweetly sleepy.

“Happy new year, Ray.”

“Same back at ya, Benny.”

Fraser watched the moon. Ray in the moonlight. He had held Ray naked in the half light of an eclipsed moon, one night that spring; he watched as the moonlight crept over them now.

“We get all that legal stuff wrapped up,” Ray murmured, “I want us to get away, go up to the cabin. Just get completely away from everybody and everything. For about a month. Just us. I’ll bring that t-shirt you like so much. And if we can still walk after a month, well, then we’ll stay up there another month.”

“It will have snowed by now, Ray.” The lights of the cabin, glowing in the snowy twilight like the warmth of a loving heart; Ray’s silhouette in the open door as he watched Fraser coming home.

“I don’t care.” Ray’s arms tightened. “All I need is you … and a bed … and a warm, safe place. That’s all I really need.”

The moonlight silvered his shoulder. “Of course, Ray.”

Sleep was stealing over Fraser. He closed his eyes and felt it conquer him.

Ray and a bed and a warm, safe place.

And a veil of snow whispering against the window, just a breath of coldness to inspire them to seek each other’s warmth.

——

“Now, remember—I’m here, so don’t try to do it all yourself.”

“Yes, Ray.”

“You’re tough, Fraser, but that doesn’t mean you should try to take them all on by yourself.”

“Understood, Ray.”

“There’s just too many of them.”

“Of course, Ray.”

“You ready?”

“Yes, Ray.”

“On three. One, two—”

“You mean, _on_ three? Or just after you _say_ ‘three’?”

“I mean _on_ three.”

“Because last time you meant just after you _said_ ‘three’.”

“ _What_ last time? There _was_ no last time! I mean, _on_ three, Fraser. Especially this time, I mean _on_ _three_.”

“Understood.”

“Okay. Now. One, two, _three_ —”

Turn the knob; open the door.

Enter.

Stare down the surprised faces; focus on the one starting a fuss; make sure they know you mean business.

“Hey, Ma! I’m _home!_ ”

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so "Little Mr. Marker" was supposed to be my only slash story; and then "Thief of Hearts" really was supposed to be the last; and then "The Fire This Time" was really, truly absolutely supposed to be the last slash story I ever wrote; and then I got the idea for _Redux_. _Redux_ is my Victoria-returns entry. I haven't yet read one—gen or slash—that I believed: she's usually just way too psychotic or violent, or too pathetic. And Victoria is obsessed, vindictive, and generally colder than ice—but she's also a fascinating three-dimensional character, who probably thinks she's actually in love with Fraser.
> 
> Frankly, "Victoria's Secret" is probably the most perfect 2-hour episode of any television series I've ever seen. The snow metaphor, the complicated plot, the incredible photography and editing—it's breathtaking. I love the way the same actions the viewer "awww"s over on first viewing are so chilling on the second, and the third. I also love that the movie Victoria and Fraser rent—"North By Northwest"—is tailor-made to set up a Mountie who thinks he's in love. This is one episode that has gotten better and better, every time I've seen it. (Watch "You Must Remember This", "Victoria's Secret", and "Letting Go" back to back sometime, if you haven't; it's easier to see how Fraser could make himself believe that his relationship with Victoria is similar enough to the relationship between Ray and Suzanne Chapin, that he ought to be able to make it work.)
> 
> I tried to bring Victoria back in a plot complex enough to be worthy of her. And, believe me, it took some doing! I had to read up on con artists, and cons; and then I had to sit down with actual money to figure out the rather pathetic thing the junkie does to slip the twenty to Ray; it's my own creation, and it might work, if you're really good, and the mark is really stupid. The criminal who towed a safe behind his car was real; I know somebody on the jury. It struck me that all anybody really trying to screw up these guys needed to do was use people nobody would find again, to plant evidence or get Ray in the right place—simple moves, actually.
> 
> It was fun to work in all the references to "To Windhover", the poem Fraser doesn't realize he knows as perfectly as he does (if you haven't noticed, it's what he begins to murmur after Ray shoots him in "Victoria's Secret"; listen, and you can hear him say, "king/ dom of daylight's dauphin."). I quote the poem a couple of places: where Fraser is thinking about Ray, and where Fraser is thinking about Victoria. He uses the images casually, not realizing that he actually heard and memorized the poem as Victoria repeated it over and over at Fortitude Pass. I also included a tribute to Sherlock Holmes: "Rache", he points out in "A Study in Scarlet", is the German word for "revenge." It was fun to bring in references to Frank Capra movies (Bailey and Sullivan, the two IA guys, come from "It's a Wonderful Life" and "Sullivan's Travels"—also the movie shown in prison in the episode, "The Witness"). I also had a good time bringing in references to snow and cold I'd used in earlier stories in the series. I didn't know when I wrote them that they were going to be a setup for this, but I had a good time with them. One way I tried to tie the stories together is the opening sentence. Originally, it was just supposed to tie together the first two stories. Then I thought it would be fun to start every work in the series the same way. It was just my good fortune that I could also end the series with the same image.
> 
> This story was also an answer to all those Ma-Vecchio-finds-out stories where she welcomes the Mountie into the family, and everything's okay. A slew of these popped up around the time I was writing this, and all I could think was, "Never met an Italian mama, have you?" I thought it would be fun if she found out around the time Victoria starts working back into Fraser's life. ("Fun", slash writer's definition: "noun; something that the writer enjoys, which the characters in the story probably do not.")
> 
> I had a really good time with this one: I really let loose with the passion and the sex. And the references to other episodes (what slash writer can resist putting Fraser and Ray on top of a train full of Mounties, after "All the Queen's Horses"?). And the asides about America in the '90s; one of my favorite lines is still Lipkowitz's, about the coffe, condoms, and cigars. And the New World Order stuff.
> 
> Lots of fun. (See above definition.)
> 
> This was originally printed as a stand-alone novel-length fanzine by Almost Foolproof Press.


End file.
